


always, no sometimes

by stonedlennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1960s, 1966, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, McLennon Fanfic Exchange, Slow Build, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: Stolen moments from a single year. Or: four times someone nearly found John and Paul together, and the one time they found each other. Set around the recording of Sgt. Pepper, 1966.





	

**Author's Note:**

> written in participation for the mclennon fanfic exchange 2017! my prompt: john and paul being interrupted. my take: they're _sort of_ interrupted? if anything it's more of a character study (by this stage you know it's all i really write, let's be honest here). this started out as a oneshot, but then i realized i could write a four part piece about john and paul in their moustache phase having _a lot_ of sex, and then it was 20k, and well. here we are. in addition, this was sort of written as a challenge to see if i could write smut. result: yes. yes, i can. buckle up, kids.
> 
> this is set roughly in the autumn-winter of 1966. everything should be timeline accurate; any inaccuracies are my fault! if you want music to go with this, john's trippy vocalizing in "a day in the life" (like 2:50) is.. it. that sound is this fic. more generally, i'd also recommend listening to ravi shankar for background atmosphere.
> 
> similarly, several of these scenes are cross-referenced in my other fic, [six hours in august](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9642896), so you can consider these as running on parallel verse lines, i.e. they both happen in the same timeline. also, this fic was written in early february and it's been languishing for ALL THAT TIME so i'm so delighted to finally post it!

**London.**

October 23rd, 1966.

 

Paul knew that bringing John to this party would be a mistake.

For one, it’s not John’s crowd. These days he’s more hermit than man, skulking about Weybridge as if in exile, chain-smoking and reading philosophy books in an attempt to one-up Paul’s “intellectual arse-bandits,” as John had once described them. Second, his prickliness is only quelled by drink, but John on drink inevitably means someone will get a tongue-lashing, a bottle or two may be broken, and facades may crack. They’re famous enough to get away with this sort of behaviour; and John is unique in that it’s almost expected he’ll make some sort of scene, if only for entertainment value.

 _Roll up, roll up,_ John sneered once. _Come see Lennon lose it!_

If Paul’s bored, he’ll encourage him. Tonight, however, John’s just getting on his tit.

“What,” Paul said, dragging John over to the champagne ice sculpture, “is wrong.”

“Christ, leave off,” John snapped, wrenching his arm free. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth, crushed beneath the moustache they’d all, as if by osmosis, started to grow. Scowling, he took a swig of his mint julep. “I’m behaving meself, aren’t I.”

“You’ve insulted about five bloody people.”

“And in five minutes,” John pointed out, plucking his cigarette from his lips and gesturing sharply with it. “Impressive, that.”

Waving the smoke out of his face, Paul raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t have to come. I didn’t need an escort; I just wanted t’go out with ye. Have some _fun_ , for once.”

“Speaking of no fun, where _is_ old Jane?” Peering over the heads of the colourful crowd, John wrinkled his nose to adjust his specs, sucking on his cig. “I'd even take _her_ over you right now.”

Paul decided against pointing out that a couple more mint juleps would find John singing a different tune, and instead he sighed and came to lean against the wall beside him. Together they surveyed the flock stuffed into the enormous London penthouse. Paul was familiar with the host only through his gallery connections; for the most part, this seemed to be a gathering that was half business, half pleasure. Certainly, most the guests were flirting, laughing, and quipping with the studied air of those who intended end the night with a new benefactor or client on their list. With a sideways glance at John, he was reminded anew why this had been a foolish idea. John hated spectacles; as much as the guests appeared glittering and beautiful to Paul, John would only see a roomful of performing animals.

Even as he thought it, John leaned into his side and pointed his cigarette into the crowd. “Did ye see the fella with the tits?”

“John,” he said, exasperated. As he took a sip of his drink, John crowed, “What? M’just pointin’ ‘im out. No harm, no fowl. Considering that’s no bird.”

“Jesus,” Paul muttered.

“Why’d ye like this lot, Macca?” They looked at each other. John’s voluminous shirt blended into the outrageous wallpaper. His moustache was slightly damp from his drink, his cigarette smouldering between clenched teeth. Tilting his head to survey Paul, he took a challenging gulp from his glass, somehow managing to avoid dropping his cigarette in the process. “Really,” he continued, lowering his drink. John jerked his chin towards the crowd, eyes never leaving Paul. “Tell me.”

“You know why. Don’t do this now, John. I’m not in the bloody mood.”

“Did I put ye there?” When Paul didn’t reply, John moved closer and stared at the side of his face. “Eh, Paulie? Did I?”

“They’re interesting, alright?” Paul put his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and liberated a new glass in the same movement. “They create art, just like us. They’re intelligent, they’re sophisticated. We discuss issues.”

“Tissues,” John corrected. “All those crocodile tears.”

Feeling suddenly furious, Paul stared into his drink, then put it down on the table beside the ice sculpture. He took a long drag from his cigarette and set his jaw. An artist he’d met a few weeks ago caught his eye from across the room and waved, her face lighting up. Paul smiled and raised a hand.

Having followed Paul’s gaze, John snorted beside him. “Now I know why ye didn’t bring Jane.”

“Listen.” Paul smiled tightly. “Since you’re in such pleasant mood, why don’t ye take me car and go home. Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch up, eh.”

“Paul.” His expression fell as Paul turned to go into the crowd. John’s lonely voice drifted behind him, mingling with the trendy saxophone that played on the jukebox. “Paul!”

It didn’t matter whether John ended up leaving or staying. Paul was sick to the back teeth of John’s needling, his barbed comments about Paul _art parties,_ snorting whenever Paul brought up a new book he’d read or a play he’d seen with Jane. For all his proclamations against the ignorant and stupid, John could be the epitome of pigheadedness. But even as he drifted into conversation with the girl who’d beckoned him over, Paul found himself glancing up every now and then to try and catch a glimpse of that tall, slender figure. The evening swung upwards around ten o’clock, the music pounding louder, business conversation giving way to silly jokes and increasingly tipsy behaviour.

Paul, who’d started drinking water under the vague idea that he’d drive himself home later, suddenly caught sight of a familiar floral shirt. “Excuse me,” he told the girl, “Sorry, I’ll be right back.” Slipping through the crowd, Paul held his cigarette up by his head to keep it from harm, and pursued John as he slipped around a corner.

The penthouse was a typical London affair: two floors, bridged by a sweeping staircase that lead onto the bedrooms and ‘studies’, one of which was occupied by a handful of people snorting cocaine off copies of Proust. Apologizing for his intrusion, Paul continued to trail down random hallways. The music from downstairs made the floor shudder, mingled laughter and conversation coming to him as if from underwater. He was about to give up on The Rescue of Lennon when he glimpsed a figure sitting on a window seat in a dimmed bedroom.

“You’re worse than Hamlet,” Paul said.

John leaped a mile. “Fuck! Paul, you fuckin’ cunt.” His glasses glinted as he glared, the orange streetlights illuminating his profile. Closing the door behind him, Paul padded further into the room. When he found a bedside lamp and flicked it on, John blinked rapidly. An empty glass rested on the carpet beside one dangling foot, his limbs irritably folded into a Lennonesque pretzel. He sullenly watched Paul approach. “Coming to apologize?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Paul replied sarcastically. John moved his legs aside for Paul to sit down, then looped his arms around his knees. His expression was vaguely irritated, but there was a cautious glimmer in his gaze that indicated his pleasure at being found.

“Did they start wanking to Picasso?” John asked. “Got a smoke, by the way? I’m out.”

Wordlessly Paul patted down his pockets, then shook his head. As John rolled his eyes, Paul said, “It was an orgy, actually. I barely escaped with me life.”

“Or your cock,” John pointed out, drolly leaning his head back against the wall. His half-mast eyes made Paul’s skin simmer.

Paul shrugged. “Well, I need that, so I thought I better give it a miss.”

“Just this once,” John agreed, and Paul said, “Mm. I had someone better t’do, anyroad.”

They watched each other, John’s mouth visibly softening the longer Paul maintained his composure. When he shifted forward to sit up, his arms still looped around his knees, his eyes flicked over Paul’s face with an air of appraisal. “Someone better than a bloke with tits?” John asked rhetorically. “What a fuckin’ compliment, Paul, ye shouldn’t ‘ave.”

“And yet…” Spreading his hands and raising his eyebrows, John startled him by laughing once. Paul tilted his head as he tiptoed his fingers up John’s shin. When he reached one knee, Paul rubbed the side of it with his thumb.

“Don’t be ‘ere if you’d rather be down there,” John said quietly. “M’miserable fuckin’ company.”

Paul shifted closer, enough to fully wrap his hand around John’s kneecap. Their gaze met, John’s expression shuttered against Paul’s imagined excuses. Paul said, “Bit late to pull that card, mate.”

“Aye, suppose so,” John replied. “Shoulda chucked ye back when I had a chance.”

“If only,” Paul murmured. He smiled and, as his eyes dropped to his mouth, John licked his lips. Being this close to John always revealed glimpses of the man he worked so hard to hide: the faint purple shade beneath his eyes, the insecure set of his mouth, the shimmer of warmth as he watched Paul. And when Paul pressed close enough to finally kiss him, John exhaled unsteadily through his nose.

The familiarity of this never ceased to astonish him. They kissed quietly for a long moment, Paul reaching up to cup John’s jaw, John’s hands unwinding from his knees to run up Paul’s arms. Tilting his head to deepen the angle elicited a needy sound from John, whose grip on Paul’s shirtsleeve tightened. Drawing away, Paul bit his own lip. The way John looked sent something hot and tangled through his belly.

“We probably shouldn’t,” he tried, but John shot him a derisive look.

“Kiss me like that then leave me high and dry? Fat chance.” John grabbed the front of Paul’s shirt and dragged them back together. This time the kiss was hard and slick, John’s tongue slipping easily into Paul’s mouth to slide along the inseam of his lips. Paul groaned in surprise and John grinned.

“You know,” Paul murmured between them, “there’s a bed.”

John passed a thumb over Paul’s bottom lip. “Mm. I did notice.”

“We could always…”

“What an idea… D’ye think?”

Pulling away quickly, Paul laughed at John’s astonished expression. He got up and went over to the bed, which was a monstrous four poster affair that probably cost as much as John’s Rolls-Royce. The low light cast from the lamp sent velvet shadows to tangle up the walls. Sitting down on the sumptuous bedspread, Paul undid the first few buttons on his shirt with one hand and raised an eyebrow at John.

“Picasso’s not going t’wait, y’know,” he quipped.

John stood up slowly. He loomed by the window, his eyes intent as Paul’s hand moved further down his shirt. They bloomed dark when Paul’s shirt opened fully, exposing his bare chest, and he said lowly, “You’re a fuckin’ exhibitionist, Paul.”

Leaning back on his elbows, Paul gazed down at the flat valley of his torso and made an thoughtful noise.  “Well, this is an art party.”

Swiftly, John closed the remaining distance between them. Paul grinned against John’s mouth when John pressed him into the mattress, crowding him into scooting further up the bed, teasing, “Oh, s’gonna be like that, is it, John?” They kissed heatedly, the mood shifting instantly from playful into one of intent. Biting John’s bottom lip in a way that made him groan angrily, Paul took advantage to roll them over. He pulled away and sat up to straddle John, surveying him with a supine expression.

“God, Paul.” Dragging his hands up Paul’s thighs, John took a moment to stare up at him: the dark hair that curled around his ears, the way his moustache was slightly mussed, Paul’s slow, deliberate smile the longer John drank his fill. Keeping their eyes pinned together, Paul sank down to draw John into a filthy kiss.

Across the room, the door opened then closed quick. Paul tore away from John’s mouth, his heart hammering. Peering through the gloom, he listened like a rabbit and hovered over John’s prone body.

John made a frustrated sound and wove his hand into the side of Paul’s shirt, trying to drag him back down. When Paul resisted, John murmured, “S’nothin’, love, come back ‘ere and give me a kiss –”

Untangling himself from the octopus named Lennon, Paul kept staring at the door. It looked innocuous enough, and even as he waited he thought he heard distant footsteps from the study further up the hall. A hurried thump on the landing made Paul stiffen. “What was that?” he demanded.

“What?” Propping himself up on his elbows, John said peevishly, “What was what, Paul?”

“Was that the door?” Visions of the girl from downstairs swam through his mind. Most of the people at these parties were either queer themselves or at least acquainted with the concept. More to the point, most of the people at these parties were semi-famous. But to one of the hangers-on that inevitably drifted into a party like this, two Beatles in bed would be worth a pretty penny to the _Daily Mail._ Or the police.

A warm hand had started to explore one of Paul’s exposed collarbones. John leaned up to smooth his tongue over the hollow of Paul’s throat, enough that Paul closed his eyes briefly and shuddered. He withstood the attention for a heady moment before pulling away entirely. Shifting to sit across John’s thighs, Paul ran a hand through his hair and focused on calming his breaths.

“Christ, Paul!” John snapped. “Who fuckin’ cares? Everyone’s fuckin’ drunk, anyroad.”

“Not us,” Paul replied sharply, looking down at John with a frown. “How’d that’ll play out, ye reckon? ‘I shag me best mate regardless of blood alcohol level’?”

“You’re overthinkin’ it,” John insisted, “as bloody usual. Come back.” His voice lowered tellingly. “ _Paulie_. I need ye.”

“Don’t try that.” Paul tried to sound stern but a smile ended up flickering across his mouth. John, the bastard, noticed, and began to grin as he watched Paul maintain composure above him. “Stop it,” Paul warned.

With wicked eyes and wicked teeth John ran his hands up Paul’s legs, his blunt nails catching on the firm muscles of Paul’s thighs. His breath hitched as he watched John’s ascent, one of his palms smoothing over his lower stomach, the other trailing along the juncture of his hip.

“John,” Paul said lowly.

They watched Paul’s erection, which had flagged only momentarily by the proceedings, as it pressed against the tight seam of his tan trousers. With no reservation, John passed his hand over its length, his fingers curling around its girth as if in assessment. Paul groaned in the back of his throat and bit his lip, his eyes shuttering as John began to move his hand slowly, bringing Paul’s cock to attention.

John caught Paul’s gaze. His stomach swooped to see John like this: hair gently mussed, mouth parted as he breathed, a languid furrow between his brows as he started to pump Paul through his trousers. The seam began to press against his cock, enough that Paul swallowed dryly and shifted his hips forward into John’s hand.

“Oh, aye?” John’s voice was like gravel. He grinned once, his eyes blown black, before he gripped Paul’s hip with his other hand to coax out another thrust, and as Paul pushed back, his arse dragged along John’s erection.

“Ah, fuck.” Tipping his head back, Paul began to grind onto John’s cock. The friction of their trousers was almost too much to bear – too tight, too warm – but as he rolled his hips and savoured the exquisite drag of John’s cock against his arse, he found himself dissolving. His mind zeroed in on the hardness between his legs, the sweat gathering at the base of his spine, the way John gripped his hip hard enough to bruise.

Before Paul could pick up the pace, John growled and wound his hand in the front of Paul’s shirt. They kissed hungrily, desire bubbling up in Paul’s throat to make his jugular pound with the force of his pulse. He groaned brokenly against John’s mouth and let John bit his lower lip as he rode him, his thighs slipping on the bed to spread himself wider, the inseam of his trousers taut as a bow against his crotch. John’s moustache rubbed against Paul’s upper lip as they kissed again, his glasses crushed between them.

“Fuck me,” Paul murmured heatedly, “please, Johnny, fuck me.”

John bit off a moan. He broke the kiss with a murmured, “Oh, fuckin’ hell,” as if Paul alone could make him like  _this._ Black eyed and red-cheeked, his mouth slack as they undressed each other, fingers slipping on buttons and pausing only to rut in fervour. Paul almost choked when John popped the button on his trousers, his erection resting heavily between his legs. The look on John’s face made Paul’s whole body throb with heat. Without glancing up, John grabbed the back of Paul’s thighs and urged him forward, enough that he was pressed hard against the headboard with Paul’s cock bobbing at eye level.

With his shirt half falling off his taut arms, and his own cock tenting his jocks, John looked in that instant like the best centre page spread Paul had ever seen in his fucking life.

Paul caught himself on the wall above the bed as he ducked his head to watch. John visibly swallowed before he pressed his red mouth to Paul’s clothed erection. He mouthed it eagerly, unashamedly, enough that Paul turned his head into his bicep and breathed roughly through his mouth to steel himself. When he felt John tug his jocks down over his balls, there was but an instant of cool air before John downed his cock.

“ _Oh,_ God.” Paul’s voice caught in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and simmered in the inarticulate sensation of John deepthroating him. His cock was so fucking warm, so  _wet._ Paul managed to look down. John’s eyes were half-closed as his head bobbed, saliva collecting at the corners of his mouth, catching in his moustache. As Paul’s cock rubbed against the back of John’s throat, Paul cried, “Fuck!” then, “Fuck me, John,  _please,_ oh God –“

John pulled off so slowly, Paul was capable only of watching with his mouth hanging open. A long string of spit stretched between John’s puffy lower lip and the head of Paul’s cock, which John, in an act that belied his own arousal, ducked forward to press his tongue against.

“John, I fucking swear –” Paul’s cock felt enormous, swollen and aching. They kissed urgently. The awkward angle didn’t impede the greedy crush of tongue and teeth, John tasting like salt and tobacco and a bit like the mint juleps they’d been drinking downstairs. The heady combination made Paul’s groin thrum, and he broke off only to rip his shirt from his shoulders. John followed suit, shoving down his and Paul’s trousers, flinging them across the room.

His glasses had fogged up on one side. John pulled them off and dropped them on the bedside table, watching Paul myopically, the weight of his gaze so dark and heavy that Paul shuddered. He rolled onto his front, his cock brushing agonizingly over the crumpled covers. Then, with John staring, his mouth parted, Paul pressed up onto his knees, pushing his arse into the air. Down on his elbows, Paul licked his lips and said, “I want you to fuck me, now.”

Sounding strangled, John said, “Oh,  _Christ.”_ Dragging his hands over the smooth expanse of Paul’s body, he came up behind him, his cock pushing in between Paul’s arse cheeks and making Paul rock back instinctively, the sensation making them both groan, off-kilter. After a hurried pause, John, with more sound-mindedness than Paul was even fucking capable of, nudged two slick fingers against Paul’s arsehole. The lubricant was clammy, and Paul grit his teeth, but then John was inching his index finger past the tight ring of muscle and Paul dropped his head onto his forearms, feeling John’s thighs flush against his own, the way he was panting against Paul’s back as he bent his head to watch him finger Paul open, each shallow thrust coaxing the burn into something so much deeper, something that soon made Paul arch his back to spread his arse, and John choked out a groan as he added a third finger. He started fucking Paul more quickly, his palm hitting the base of Paul’s spine with each thrust, the force of it making Paul’s cock rock between his legs.

In an intense rush, Paul realized he was much closer than he thought. Breathing heavily, he managed, “John, now, now,” and John grunted as he pulled out his fingers, leaving Paul open and ready. With a heady thrum of anticipation Paul felt the blunt press of John at his arsehole. The shape of it, as always, sent conflicting signals of heady excitement and nerves, making his skin prickle with heat and waiting. Then John was nudging forward,  _into him,_ and Paul moaned helplessly. He tried to push back onto John’s cock but the feeling was too much, too sudden, too  _filling._ John grabbed Paul’s hip as he started to thrust, at first just enough to ease Paul onto him. John rubbed a thumb over where Paul was stretched and he murmured, “Fuck, you’re so good, Paul, oh Christ.”

“Yeah?” Out of breath, Paul gripped the sheets and started to grind back into John’s hips. With each nudge John pressed further in until Paul could feel his pubic hair, damp and warm, and he moaned at the intimacy of something so simple. They were too far gone too quickly, but John blanketed himself over Paul’s back as he fucked him, each drag hard and sure, pushing Paul further into the mattress until he had to grab the headboard to stop from slipping, his eyes squeezed shut against the exquisite drag and shove of John’s cock in him, the way in which he held Paul’s hip, the open-mouthed kisses he pressed to the back of Paul’s neck.

Tipping his head back, Paul concentrated on the imminent white wave of heat that built within him. It gathered in his spine and made his cock swell, and then John angled down and – “Fuck, John!” Paul’s orgasm tore through him so suddenly he felt his pulse stutter. Then John had both of his hips in his hands and he was thrusting erratically, chasing the swell in his veins, until Paul clenched his arse and John came with a muffled sound.

Sticky and damp and hot, Paul’s knees shook as he dropped onto his front. The mingled scent of semen and sweat washed over him as John slumped beside him with a grunt, huffing as he caught his breath. Closing his eyes against the sensation of John’s come trailing down the back of his thigh, Paul’s whole body felt boneless and supine. His cock was wet against his lower stomach, come stuck in his pubic hair. John was a deadweight beside him, one arm flung behind his head, the other sprawled too close to Paul’s overheated side to be comfortable. This was what he liked best. Not just the shagging – which Paul privately admitted consistently scored among the best in his life – but being here, laying with John, both of them damp and spent, listening to each other breathe.

After a long, sleepy moment, the sound of the party downstairs filtered into his consciousness. John must have noticed at the same moment, because he groaned and rolled over, burying his head into the crook of Paul’s shoulder. Smiling to himself, Paul reached up to thread a hand through John’s soft hair. His heart beat slow.

Then a single thought made his eyes snap open. “We didn’t lock the door.”

“Shut the fuck up, Macca,” John mumbled into his skin. Before Paul could begin to fuss, he looped an arm around Paul’s middle and drew him close. “Hush, now.” He sounded five minutes away from a good, post-shag nap. “Time to kip.”

“No,” Paul tried weakly. “We have to… People will notice.”

John moved his head to press a series of kisses on Paul’s neck. Feeling the tug of sleep, Paul stirred against the temptation. “John,” he protested, voice hushed and coy, “be sensible.”

“Got you t’do that fer me,” John replied indistinctly. He stopped kissing long enough to suck on Paul’s earlobe, which elicited a tremble across Paul’s sensitive skin. “Pretty Paulie. Thinkin’ of others and all that shite.”

“Mm.” If John kept doing that to his ear… “’Ang on. ‘Pretty Paulie’?”

“Another Lennon original,” John whispered. He stuck his tongue out and dragged it up the shell of Paul’s ear, pausing only to nip at the lobe, then he sunk into a deep, open-mouthed kiss right on Paul’s jugular.

Feeling his blood stir already, Paul couldn’t help arching up at the contact. His eyes slid closed as he focused on the hot, wet heat on his neck, John’s ministrations sending ripples of pleasure to gather along his arms, his belly, legs, to rest in the well of his groin. It was only when John nipped the bruised skin that Paul exhaled heavily, a full-body shudder making John grin against his skin.

“There,” he murmured roughly. “Now we can go back.”

 

* * *

 

  **Weybridge.**

November 9th, 1966.

 

Only Paul could get embarrassed by seeing John in the nude.

“For fuck’s sake, John.” Holding a hand up in front of his face, Paul thought he was hidden when he rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

John, who was holding a watering can in one hand and a book in the other, scowled from across the room. “Didn’t know ye were goin’ t’come bargin’ in, now, did I?” He turned his attention back to the plants and resumed watering them.

“Where’s Cyn?” Evidently deciding there were worse things in life to get cross about, Paul dropped his hand and wandered into the conservatory. With Mediterranean tiles, a couple of sun lounges, a piano, and several other bits and pieces John had feathered his nest with, it was one of the warmest, most pleasant rooms in Weybridge; which was, in John’s unquiet opinion, possibly one of the most miserable and least aesthetically appealing houses in England. As Paul perched on the arm of a sofa, John observed the pleasing way that Paul’s trousers pulled taut over his thighs. “And Julian?”

Putting down the watering can, John then dog-eared the page he’d been reading. “Out,” he said shortly. His brevity might further irritate Paul, who seemed to take it personally whenever John lost track of his wife and child, but the truth was he couldn’t quite remember. At Cynthia’s parents’ house? A friend’s?

John tossed the book onto a table and narrowly missed an overflowing ashtray. As he set his gaze on Paul and commenced his seduction, Paul raised a single eyebrow.

“Fuckin’ fine!” John snapped. He whipped around and stormed out of the room. When he returned in a loose navy robe, Paul was lighting a cigarette.

“I didn’t say anything,” Paul reminded him coyly.

“Didn’t ‘ave to,” John grumbled, snatching Paul’s lit cigarette from his hands. As he took a sharp drag and ignored Paul’s disgruntled look, he narrowed his eyes from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “What d’ye want, anyroad?”

Taking out a new cigarette, Paul tapped it on the underside of his wrist. “Disturbing your busy day, am I?”

“I’ve not written anything,” John said intuitively. These days Paul tended to drive up at any odd time, day or night, always clutching a notebook full of scribblings he’d done on the way up, balancing the page against the steering wheel and writing as he drove. Although John would only admit it under three specific conditions (drugs, booze, post-coital), these impromptu visits were keeping him sane. After the doldrums of Gripweed and the crushing existentiality of his twenty seventh birthday, seeing Paul jauntily pull up the driveway never failed to ease the ache in John’s chest. The ache that meant,  _This could’ve been forever –_ and then, more dangerously,  _It still could._

When Paul smiled at him, John found the corner of his own mouth twitching. “That’s why I’m here, ye bellend,” Paul said affectionately. He reached out and tapped John’s stomach with the notebook in his free hand, then gestured towards the piano. “Come ‘ead, then.”

As Paul stood up, John pressed in to bracket him against the side of the sofa. He tilted his head and dropped a firm kiss to Paul’s waiting mouth. He tasted like smoke and ash, which made John think confusingly of the wood burner in the bigger living room, until he realized that the autumn air outside would be crisp and cool as it clung to Paul’s skin. When the kiss softened into something deeper, John pulled away. Paul blinked up at him, his dark eyelashes smudged against his warmed cheeks.

“Work first, Johnny,” he murmured.

John’s blood stirred. “Let me suck ye off.”

Paul made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. The colour that rose in his cheeks made John grin wickedly, sensing a way in as only an old lover could. But before he could entrap Paul again, he slipped away from John’s arms and laughed as he walked backwards towards the piano.

“Six bloody years of this caper!” John raged.

Moving a stack of philosophy books off the long piano bench, Paul then settled down and propped his notebook up on the stand. He played a couple of notes and said coyly, “I didn’t say you  _couldn’t._ ”

“Let me know when you’ve pencilled me in.” Grumpily, John padded over then folded himself next to Paul. He seamlessly joined a jaunty little ragtime tune, reminiscent of Jim McCartney’s band days, before they trailed into something by Vera Lynn. Paul always played with a slightly studied air, his attempt at being nonchalant fading only when one realized his attention to his musical prowess bordered on the insane. For John, whose life ambition was to sleep, fuck, and sing, not necessarily in that order, that sort of dedication struck him as being schoolmarmish.

He was in the middle of making a comment along those lines when Paul snapped his fingers suddenly. “Play that, what was that.” Pushing his specs up with his free hand, John repeated three chords.

“Got something?” he asked as Paul flipped through his notebook.

“Hm. Maybe. I had a dream last night… It went something like…” He played John’s chords in a higher octave, then added a counter melody immediately afterwards. John made a considering face, but slipped his hand onto the keys beside Paul to try a twist at the end. “Da  _da_ da dum,” he said, “see?”

Paul hummed again and made a note on his page. They played like this for a bit, trading tunes back and forth, making up nonsense ditties before segueing into something that could end up being a song for the album. Sargent Pepper was going to be their best work; John felt it in his bones. It was funny and different, a bit weird, but in a subtle, elegant way that only Paul could conceive of. That was Paul all over: the idea that something appeared normal, but upon second glance revealed something unexpected. Of course, John wouldn’t ever  _say_  anything. It was better for everyone if John maintained his aloof assessment of everything they produced. Without his honesty, they’d all disappear so far up their own arses, they’d come up their noses.

When Paul’s long-fingered hands started tripping up the keys again, John found himself distracted. Paul’s eyes were downcast, an expression of warm serenity softening his features. His dark moustache made him look simultaneously younger and older, and sort of as if he’d permanently glued on one of the pieces he used to escape public notice. Because every Beatle tootled along after the other, they’d had their hair cut around the same time. John’s stuck up like a toilet brush, but Paul’s was sleek, and as Paul started singing gently under his breath, John curled a hand around the nape of his neck.

Smiling as he played, Paul said, “Feeling soft, John?”

“Not for you,” John replied, thinking of his cock. He tilted his head and threaded his fingers through the bits of hair that were a little longer, watching them curl around his knuckles. Paul’s head tipped back when John dug his nails in, just enough to scratch in the way that made Paul bit his lip. Knowing that always got him going, John shifted closer. He ducked his head to suck on Paul’s earlobe, nipping with his teeth. Nosing along the line of Paul’s jugular, he breathed in that familiar scent of Ivory soap (after all these years, Christ), peppery cologne, and tobacco. John started pressing firm kisses up the side of Paul’s neck, up to his ear then back again, taking the time to taste the part of Paul everyone could see. When he tip-toed his hand up Paul’s arm to toy with the top button of Paul’s shirt, Paul groaned lowly.

“Smoke break?” John asked breathlessly. It was their code, used in prolonged studio sessions or after harrowing interviews, and off they’d go to grope in cupboards or toss each other off, knowing it was childish but indulging each other regardless. Paul could seduce him in a knitted Christmas jumper and John would be up for it (actually, that might have happened once).

Paul made another quiet sound, then he tipped his head into John’s shoulder and they were kissing. John breathed unsteadily through his nose as Paul swiftly took charge, his mouth firm and warm, pulling back to suck on John’s lower lip. The feeling of Paul’s teeth brushing sensitive skin made John moan helplessly, and he tightened his grip in Paul’s hair to tip his head further back. Extricating one arm to hold onto the bench behind John, Paul then pressed into his personal space, turning the tables once again. John gave in, letting Paul slide his tongue into his mouth and drag it against his own, enough that John’s skin started to flush hotly, thinking of Paul’s tongue on other parts of his body. When Paul pulled slowly away, John’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth still parted.

“Oh, John,” Paul murmured, sounding broken. He cupped John’s jaw and trailed his thumb along his chin and up to his full bottom lip. John gently opened his mouth and took in Paul’s thumb. His eyes grew dark and slack as he watched John suck, his tongue curling around the base of his finger before drawing up to tease the tip. When Paul’s throat visibly bobbed, John let go with a pop, then pressed forward to kiss him again.

They kissed more fervently, Paul dragging John in until his very bones pounded with want. The feeling of Paul’s skin beneath his hands made him crazy, the little hitched noises Paul made when he thought he was being too loud were so familiar, so sensual, that John allowed himself to dissolve into the wonderful accustoms of someone he’d loved since he was sixteen. He moved his left hand steadily up Paul’s thigh before he found his groin. Drawing back to watch Paul lick his lips, John started to map the contours of Paul’s cock. It rested, heavy and firm and dizzyingly hot, in the palm of his hand. Rubbing his hand up and down, John leaned in to bite Paul’s earlobe.

“Fuck, John.” Paul’s legs slackened, falling open as John continued to pump him through his trousers. His head tipped back, exposing his neck and the way his jugular visibly pumped. John groaned at the sight and muttered, “Come to bed, baby, come on.”

“God, yeah,” Paul bit out. As they struggled to get up, moving all the way upstairs to the bedroom suddenly seemed an impossible task. Improvising, John started to herd Paul towards the chaise longue, dipping in to press quick kisses to Paul’s lovely mouth as he did so.

“John,” Paul objected, trying to dodge John’s ministrations. “Mm, oh… No, wait. Anyone could –”

“What do I have to do,” John said with as much patience he could muster, “to make you shut up.”

A challenging flicker crossed Paul’s expression. He licked his bottom lip slowly, smirking when John helplessly followed the action. Stepping out of John’s embrace, he began to unbutton his shirt, slowly moving down until it opened completely. The trail of dark hair that lead into his trousers made John’s mouth dry. Paul was broad-shouldered after a summer of swimming, his chest scattered with hair, his waist tapering in a way that made John wonder at how fantastic he’d look between John’s legs. Best of all, however, was Paul’s prominent erection.

“Hello,” John leered.

Paul’s smirk deepened. With a casual air, he popped the top button on his trousers. Just as John thought  _right,_ and started stalking towards him, Paul held up a slender hand. Raising an eyebrow, he lowered his zip.

They’d not played this game in a while. “Paul,” John warned, drinking in the sight before him. Paul bit his lip like a seasoned bloody pornographer. With further ceremony he began to drag his trousers down and over his legs, pausing to pull off his boots at the end. Clad only in his shirt, which dangled off his shoulders, and his white jocks, Paul was all creamed skin and dark lashes and muscled stomach. Walking backwards until he reached the edge of the chaise lounge, he sank into a loose-limbed seat, his long legs spreading until his cock appeared heavier and fuller than ever, jutting from his jocks to lay invitingly against the top of one thigh.

It felt like someone had a fist around John’s throat. With half-lidded eyes he started slowly towards the lounge, stopping only to sit in the armchair across from it. They faced one another with barely two meters between them, but already John’s mouth was flush with saliva. He glanced down repeatedly at Paul’s cock, thinking hazily of how much he really fucking wanted to blow him. Waiting until John was really watching, Paul slid his hand up his bare thigh. The other hooked languidly behind his head, stretching himself taut, his thighs appearing curvaceous and firm.

John’s heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. He’d been hard for what felt like centuries, and so he leaned back in his own chair, planting his legs as far apart as he could. Paul always loved it when he presented himself to him: when John lay back, exposed himself, his voice breaking as begged. He only did that for Paul; no one else would have him on his fuckin’ knees like a starving man. Swallowing, John rested one hand on his stomach and the other on his chest. Paul’s eyes flickered towards the nipple that had slid out from beneath his robe. John tipped his head back, regarding Paul with half-lidded eyes, and lazily dragged the pads of his fingers over one nipple.

Paul’s mouth was parted softly. “Do it again,” he said roughly, his voice pitched low and urgent. He spread his fingers on his thigh, his knuckles blanching, before he very slowly dragged his palm across the front of his cock.

“Fuck.” John pinched his nipple to stop himself from coming then and there. Darting up to meet Paul’s gaze, John pulled free his robe. It slithered open, pooling on either side of his pale thighs. His cock loomed insistently between them; John immediately gripped himself hard at the base, licking his lips and fuckin’  _hearing_ Paul’s breath hitch as he did so.

With a languor that boggled the mind, Paul started to move his flattened palm over his erection. The white jocks bunch slightly over the shape of it, growing damp where Paul’s thumb slid over the clothed head. White heat collected at the base of John’s spine the longer he watched, his attention drawn only to the deep, insistent ache between his legs. As Paul slipped his hand down to grab his balls, John growled, “Fuck,” and pumped his hand.

“Stop.” Paul’s expression was so intent and dark that John moaned, a touch breathily, and said, “Fuck, Paul, come on.”

“Not ‘til I say.” John breathed quickly through his nose and jerked his head. Moving his hand to grip the base of his cock, he slid further in his chair until his legs burned with the stretch. Paul watched as John began to roll his nipple between his fingers, sucking in his lower lip, his teeth glinting as he bit down on soft flesh. Paul's mouth parted at the sight.

Slowly, Paul resumed moving his hand. He dragged it over his cock patiently, his thumb continuing to smear over the top of his cock. At this distance John could only glimpse the wetness that must gather there; he breathed in the scent of arousal and salt. Sweat gathered at the back of his knees. When Paul slipped a hand inside his jocks, John’s cock visibly jumped. “Oh, fuck.” Paul’s hand jerked, hidden beneath his underwear, his fist punching in quickening increments.

His eyelashes were black and damp, his skin glowing with the pleasurable torture of delayed satisfaction. Paul looked down to watch himself, his bicep bulging, his left forearm tight as he wanked himself off. John glimpsed the sweat that had gathered in the one roll of Paul’s stomach, just above his belly button, and he heard himself say, “Fuck, Paul, let me suck you, please.”

“Say again,” Paul ordered. His hand moved faster, the slick sound of flesh utterly obscene and lewd and _oh fuck_ John ached with the urge to touch himself.

"Let me suck ye off," he managed.

With a strangled breath Paul dragged his hand free from his jocks to hook a thumb over the waistband of his jocks. John felt as if his limbs had been replaced with coil springs; his pulse pounded in his cock, which he gripped even more tightly.

John’s breathed out in a rush. “I wanna get on my knees, Paulie.” He swallowed and glanced down at Paul’s waiting hand. “Fuck. Please. I wanna have ye in me mouth. I wanna suck ye off. I wanna taste ye. Come on.”

The rush of talking like this to Paul, who’d heard every drippy song John had even bled into existence, every curse and cruel turn of phrase, every whispered endearment and hoarse plea, never got old. John felt raw, sitting here like this. Waiting for Paul to say yes.

Mouth slack, Paul drew their gaze down to his erection. With maddening patience, Paul began to slide the front of his jocks down over his cock. He shifted his hips upwards, his cock bobbing with the motion, to pull his underwear down below his balls. With a final, lingering tug on his cock, Paul then crossed both of his arms behind his head.

John got slowly to his feet. His own cock burned in neglect as he neared the chaise lounge, where he sank onto his knees. Paul widened his legs until John was up close, his hands gripping Paul’s thighs. Desire pounded over him, coming in waves of heat, so close to Paul’s cock that he could almost taste it. Paul looked down at him. His eyes were blown wide, his mouth red and damp, colour staining his cheeks. He was breathing steadily through his parted mouth. Licking his lips, Paul murmured, “John.”

He didn’t need any more than that. John loosened his tongue and flattened it at the base of Paul’s cock. He dragged it upwards, tasting sweat, until he reached the top, which was smeared with pre-come. John closed his eyes as he took Paul into his mouth. He bobbed his head steadily, lost in the sensation of Paul’s cock, so heavy and warm, on his tongue, pressing against the back of his throat. Pushing Paul’s thighs apart even wider, John shifted so he could angle more firmly down, swallowing as much as Paul as he could. Above him Paul had dissolved into a string of hissed commands and bitten-off breaths, a low groan breaking his voice as he went, “Oh God, John,  _fuck,”_ and John pulled off suck at the head of his cock. Stomach jumping, Paul’s body went tense. “ _Fuck,_ like that, yeah.”

John’s erection rubbed hard against his belly. Flicking his eyes up to Paul, he made sure he was being watched when he reached between his legs to start tugging himself off. Each jerk of his hand made Paul stutter, his skin burning hot, John’s pulse pounding in his throat as he pushed down, down, down, until his nose pressed against Paul’s pubic hair and he shouted, hips jerking up. John pulled off with a growled, “Steady on,” before he gripped Paul’s hip tighter, enough that the skin blossomed beneath his fingers. They fell into a heady rhythm, John’s head moving faster and faster. Somewhere along the line Paul had a hand in John’s hair and was guiding his head, mouth open as he watched John with blackened eyes, his hair sticking damply to his forehead.

The mounting wave of his orgasm made John groan around Paul’s cock, his hand moving quicker between his legs. The sound of moans and the wet sound of John’s hand as he jerked himself off mingled with Paul’s rough voice as he said, “I’m close, I’m close,” and John moved to press his thumb firmly against the tight skin behind Paul’s bollocks, and then Paul’s hips canted sharply upwards and he was coming. John bobbed his head until saliva and come pooled in the corner of his mouth and Paul’s fingers tightened against his scalp.

Spent, Paul watched fuzzily as John levered off and, casually, turned his head over his shoulder to spit onto the floor.

“John!” Paul was aghast. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth roughly, John said lowly, “Didn’t feel like it,” then, with a pointed glance to his cock, “tug me off, would ye.”

Paul smiled lasciviously. “Come up here, then.”

Getting unsteadily to his feet, John climbed up into Paul’s lap and planted his knees on either side of his hips. At this angle his cock was close to Paul’s mouth, but John wanted it to be simpler. There was an echo of the Paul he’d known back in Liverpool, all boyish grace and brimming laughter, with his startlingly pretty features and a habit of biting his lower lip that had driven John fuckin’ mad for months until the tide had broken between them.

John held Paul’s shoulder and pushed his hips forward. Darting his eyes up, Paul slowly took John in hand. At first he jerked John’s cock slowly, testing, until John tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes closed, and he threw himself into pace. Convoluted images of Paul standing across the room from him in Forthlin, all of them in a semi-darkened room, calling out stupid girl names to make each other come. John remembered the first time he looked over and saw Paul watching him, his fist moving swiftly in the gloom, his lips blooming red and wanting. Then later, much later, the fact that Paul made the first move, had climbed over him and pressed their cocks together hard enough to make John see stars. Paul’s hand on his cock was so firm, so quick, and John was so in love, and he jerked his hips sharply as his orgasm rushed through him, the remembered feeling of Paul’s first kiss punching through him like a fuckin’ freight train.

Gradually the whiteness faded. John breathed unsteadily. He opened his eyes and looked down to where Paul was leaning back against the sofa, his eyes half-cast and burred with good sex. Smiling slowly, he murmured, “C’mere, love. Come on.”

John sat in Paul’s lap, his soft cock brushing up against John’s arse. He slid to sit sideways, one leg over Paul’s waist, propping one arm behind Paul’s shoulders to draw him in. “You,” he teased lowly, needing only to move in a little to kiss Paul, to let him taste himself on John’s tongue.

Curling a hand around John’s waist, Paul pulled him closer. He made a small noise in the back of his throat as John kissed him slowly, softly, more an exploration than anything with intent. They parted after a while, Paul’s lips looking puffy and slightly shiny with spit. Smoothing a thumb over Paul’s bottom lip, John tilted his head to watch him.

Paul blinked up at him. Then he dragged the hand covered in John’s come all over the side of his gown.

“You cunt!” John smacked Paul’s hand and glared as Paul fell about. “You fucker. I liked this fuckin’ robe!”

“It’s a gown, John,” he retorted. “You’re an old man and you’re not even thirty.”

“I’ll give you old man,” John growled, and just as he was about to instigate Round Two: The Lennon Special, the distant sound of a door slamming startled them into reality. In a scenario that was too comedic to dream up, the familiar sound of Julian’s chattering reached their ears.

As one they sprang apart. John fussed about with his robe as Paul dressed clumsily, fingers slipping on the buttons and losing a boot beneath the chaise lounge. The place stank of sex and semen and sweat, and if Cynthia came in, John was fuckin’ toast. He just finished scraping his own come onto the side of the armchair when Julian came tumbling into the room, a blur of activity. “Daddy!”

Putting on a smile for Paul’s benefit, John enthusiastically bundled his son into his arms. Julian instantly launched into a story about a chum from school, some girl called Lucy. “Is that so,” John went, and, “Really,” and over Julian’s shoulder, with his shirt buttoned up the wrong way and his hair in disarray, Paul grinned at him.

 

* * *

  

**Abbey Road.**

December 8th, 1966.

 

“No, no, no!”

“John, come on.” Paul watched John pace across the honeyed floorboards of the studio, his movements sharp and somewhat erratic. A pair of headphones were wound around his neck, and his loose linen shirt flapped with each stride. George was curled in the corner, a chess board set out in front of him, observing the scene with an inscrutable expression.

Crossing his legs and folding his arms, Paul settled further on the stool beside the grand piano. At least Ringo had had the sense to escape before things grew too tense; despite John’s unerring eye on the pecking order of their group, Ringo had yet to experience John’s ire. For it to happen now, after they’d done over fourteen takes of the same song, John’s voice becoming rougher each time he sang  _let me take you down,_ would be a new low, even for them.

George Martin knew better than to overtly check his wrist watch, although if the way his jaw was clenched was any indication, he was five minutes away from politely suggesting they pack it in for the evening. Outside Abbey Road, the sky was black as pitch. Sleet had started falling from midday and it hadn’t let up yet.

“Don’t ye ‘come on’ me, ye big fuckin’ bellend,” John snapped. “It sounds shite!”

Knowing better than to suggest John simply calm down (an impossible task, when he got to this point), Paul lit a cigarette. John continued to pace for a full minute as Paul smoked, then he stopped in the middle of the room and stared at him. Wordlessly, Paul held out his cig.

John stalked over and snatched it from his hand. He sucked in a lungful of smoke, brows drawn into a fierce scowl. Propping his head on his fist, Paul looked up at him.

“How about we give it a rest, eh?” he asked lightly. “Come back t’mine. Have a drink.”

“You’re only sayin’ that because you won’t admit the  _truth_ ,” John spat, smoke billowing from his nose. He glared down at Paul, who raised an eyebrow.

“There’s nothing to admit,” Paul pointed out. “It’s not shit. You’re tired. We’re all tired. We’ll pick it up in the morning, love. Come on.” As John looked set to rip into him, properly this time, Paul sat up and fixed him with a steady look. “Come on, John. Come ‘round t’mine, eh?”

 Over John’s shoulder, George stirred from his cushions. “I’m turning in,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. As he got to his feet, John rounded on him.

“Aye, come back tomorrow and you’ll know how to move yer pawns properly.”

“Sod off, John,” George replied tiredly. He scratched his belly through his  _kurti_ and quirked his eyebrows at Paul. “You and Jane coming on Saturday, by the way?”

Shit, the party. Paul resisted the urge to glance at John, knowing that he too was thinking of the last party they attended, and instead aimed for a nonchalant shrug. “She’s got rehearsals, I think,” he lied smoothly. “Might swing by. See you there?”

“Alright.” George said his goodbyes then left the room, the double doors swinging closed behind him. When George Martin clapped his hands and said, “I’ll turn in too, boys,” John only tossed his head away to glare at the opposite wall, the cigarette smouldering between his lips.

Shooting George Martin a small smile, Paul said goodnight. They listened to the clip of his brogues on the wooden floorboards as he departed; after a moment, the lights on the recording console dimmed.

Alone together, Paul looked up at John.

His aquiline nose was stark against the dark soundproofing of the studio’s ceiling. Fluffy auburn hair, which John had repeatedly run his hands through that day, stuck up on end. Even his moustache seemed mussed. Paul felt the familiar softening in his chest the longer he watched, the more intently he filed away each dip and curve of John’s features: his jawline, his long neck, his bony, long-fingered hands as they held the cigarette up to his mouth. John, who liked being appreciated, but only if he were in the mood, suddenly looked at Paul from the corner of his eye.

“Don’t try it,” he said gruffly.

“Try what?” Paul tipped his head to the side innocently, blinking like he used to back in Liverpool. Once, when they were both very drunk back in ’65, John had mentioned that he found Paul’s coy act a turn on.

 _What?_ Paul had spluttered, whiskey dribbling down his front.  _Why?_

 _Because I know you’re not,_ John slurred from the bed.  _Coy, I mean. You’re a fuckin’ terror._

“You know what.” Exhaling a cloud of smoke, John turned and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on top of the piano. He looked at Paul for a moment, his expression sullen.

Paul got up and rested one knee on the stool until they were at eye level. Slowly, knowing that John was just as apt to fight or flee, he curled his hand around the dip of John’s waist. He felt the jut of John’s hipbone and the side of his flat stomach. If it were anyone else, Paul would have felt his tiredness like a weight around his neck; but John managed to make his pulse quicken regardless of situation.

“Come on,” he said again. “Come back to mine. We’ll have a drink and a smoke, yeah? Maybe do some writing.”

“The last thing I want is fuckin’ music,” John grumbled. He jerked the headphones from his neck and dropped them beside the ashtray, then stepped away from Paul’s hand and stalked over to the coat rack, where he pulled on the large black cloak they’d nicked from  _Help!_ “Trust you to think about writing when we’ve had – fuck,” John scowled down at his fingers, which kept slipping on the fastening at his neck, “when we’ve had the worst – Sodding Christ Almighty, what the hell is wrong with this bloody stupid thing?”

Paul went over. “Here, let me,” he said gently.

Expecting John to put up a struggle, he was cautious when John merely dropped his hands to his sides and stared up at the ceiling. The corner of his mouth pinching, Paul came close and fastened the cloak against John’s collarbones. He swept his hands over the length of John’s shoulders. When they looked at each other, Paul’s lips softened into a smile.

“Thank you, nanny,” John said sarcastically.

“ _You’ve got to admit it’s getting better_ ,” Paul reminded him.

“It’s certainly getting fucking worse.”

“Spoilsport.” Picking up his own coat, Paul pulled it on and did up the buttons. With his enormous cloak on and the Holmes-inspired hat he’d taken to wearing to and from the studio, John looked like a sullen schoolboy waiting for the bus to arrive. Knowing what John needed, Paul ducked in and kissed him softly. When he pulled away, John scowled. He smiled back.

The far door suddenly swung open. Both John and Paul merely turned around, still standing toe to toe, as George Martin came back into the studio. He glanced up and shot them a harried smile.

“Sorry, boys. Forgot my sheets.” Collecting a file by the console, George started clipping back towards the door. He paused with a hand on the frame. “Oh, and Paul,” he said, “if you’re driving, do be careful. Blasted roads are like sheets of ice. Goodnight.”

“G’night,” John muttered, as Paul said, “Thanks, George.”

Paul looked back at John. He pulled out his car keys and dangled them by his head. As he raised his eyebrows and grinned, John huffed loudly. Victorious, Paul went and gathered his notebook by the piano, then he and John filed out of the studio, turning off the lights as they did so. The studio plunged into darkness; only a lamp in the foyer and the street lights outside illuminated the way out.

As they huddled on the front porch, Paul peered up at the sky. The sleet had grown fat and heavy, feathery snowflakes falling in white drifts from the sky. A chill wind rattled their bones as they started over towards where Paul had parked that morning. John grumbled incessantly about his frostbite on his bollocks as Paul fumbled with the keys. When they finally fell into the car, John immediately cranked the heating up as high as it would go.

“Jesus,” Paul marvelled as he started the car. Putting on his seatbelt, he peered out through the windows to watch the snow.

“Sod  _Strawberry Fields,”_ John commented darkly, “ _Icicle Fields_ is far more bloody accurate.”

“Might be recorded quicker too,” Paul quipped. He pretended to ignore John furious glare.

“We can’t all be happy in amateur hour, Paulie.” Folding his arms around his middle, John went to kick his feet up on the console, but the car was too small. He fidgeted noisily until Paul pulled away from the curb, his little motor grinding as they crunched over snow that was so packed down it appeared glossy in the headlights.

Paul hunched forward to concentrate. “If you make George write another score, it’ll be you dismembered on the album cover this time.”

“He wouldn’t,” John said dismissively. He kept fiddling with the heating, sending alternate blasts of hot air from one vent to another. When a jet stream ruffled his moustache, Paul shoved John’s hand away.

“Stop being a bloody toddler, John. Sit still.”

“Stop telling me what t’do, ye cunt,” John snapped. “Shit, I’ve had enough of this. Let me out.”

They were driving down a darkened road, the skeletal trees waving in the frigid wind. Paul said, incredulous, “Are you mad?”

“No more than usual.” In a flash, John had his window wound down. Freezing air flooded the car, snatching their breath away and making Paul swerve suddenly, his hands starting on the wheel. Cursing him from here to kingdom come, Paul reached over and thumped John’s arm, “Close the fucking window, d’ye want to kill us, you stupid tosser!” as John bawled, “Paul McCartney’s a cunt!” at the houses that flashed past. Before Paul knew it, John had his head and half his shoulders out in the freezing night air. “He’s a cunt that hates cunts!”

Glancing over, the sight was so ridiculous that Paul burst into laughter. Angry at himself, he struggled to keep one eye on the road and one eye on John, whose glasses were flecked with snow and his hair curled madly around his head, the Holmes hat struggling to stay on. “Get back in the sodding car, John, or I’ll push you out!”

“Try it, arsehole!” John yelled. But after a beat he dropped back into his seat and wound up the window. Almost instantly the hot air suffused them, skin prickling with the sudden shift in temperature. Panting lightly, John shot him a grin.

“Bloody hell,” Paul muttered, but he couldn’t stop smirking. They glanced at each other. John lay his arm over the back of Paul’s car seat.

They drove for a while in silence, John toying with the fringe of Paul’s muffler, Paul peering out into the voluminous dark. They didn’t pass any other cars; the clock on the dashboard clicked over to 01:20. Gradually, the houses that lined the streets grew further and further apart, plain gates replaced with wrought iron creations, the houses spilling out fatly to encompass pockets of curated land. When Paul indicated to turn off into Weybridge, John gave a muffled groan.

Paul glanced over and started up the driveway. The car bounced along the compacted gravel, the snow starting to fall heavily enough that he flipped on the windscreen wipers.

“Why am I here?” John complained. He stared up at the enormous mock-Tudor façade illuminated by the headlights as the car came to a stop. “Thought we were goin’ t’yours.”

“Thought you’d want t’go to bed,” Paul replied, surprised. When he turned off the motor, the quiet enveloped them like a blanket. They could even hear the soft sound of snowflakes as they landed on the bonnet.

“No,” John corrected, “I want a fat blunt and a good shag.”

Paul snorted. “Yeah, what else is new.”

Unbuckling his belt, John gave him a nonchalant look. “Want to come in?” When Paul paused, John added, “And don’t say Jane’s waitin’ for ye. You an’ I both know she’s in ruddy Bristol for that revival shit.”

“You reckon Cyn’d be happy t’see me?” Paul raised an eyebrow. “At this hour?”

Stopping just short of saying  _who?,_ John snorted. “Whatever, Paul. M’goin’ in. I don’t care what ye do.” As he opened the door and got out, he put a hand on the roof and leaned down. “Don’t slide off the road and die,” he said nastily, then slammed the door. Paul watched him crunch up to the front of the house.

Paul would have to be an idiot not to sense the reasoning behind John’s foul mood. It’d probably disintegrated after they’d recorded the chorus for the fifth time, John demanding they run it through at double speed and overlay it, before he decided that sounded shit, and the verse had better go first. Tapping his hands on the steering wheel, Paul peered through the snow to watch John fumble with a potted plant by the front door. Apart from the headlights of the car, no lights were on inside the house. The prospect of some weed and a cup of tea was very tempting, he had to admit. When the front door finally opened, Paul turned the car off completely.

Locking the car behind him, Paul started slogging up to where John stood, his cape shifting in the frigid wind. Paul stomped up the stone steps and stopped in front of him. There were snowflakes in their hair and eyelashes, piling on their shoulders, and the tip of John’s nose was red with cold. Raising his eyebrows, Paul said, “Can’t leave a miserable bastard alone, can I?”

“S’a free country,” John replied indistinctly. He turned and disappeared inside the house, not waiting for Paul to follow.

In the gloomy foyer, they pulled off their coats and hats. Paul unwound his muffler as he trailed after John and into the kitchen. Weybridge was a cavernous, modern house, ghastly in its pretentions. Paul’s apartment might have attracted derision for its hanging art and the baby grand in the living room, but at least he’d tried to make a go of it. As far as Paul remembered, John had thrust some money at Cynthia and let her do what she wanted. When she hesitated for too long, John roped some design geezer in to do it for them. The result was a uniformity that was simultaneously impressive and repellent.

John made them both a hot cup of tea, which they carried up three floors into the private room at the top of the house. Only when they were away from the stark furniture and endless corridors could Paul relax. He closed the door behind them as John flipped on a lamp.

Originally, Paul supposed, it was supposed to be a sort of mock-observatory; a room to have a decorative telescope or bird-watching stool or something. Over the past few months they’d claimed it as their own: stacks of books mingled with a collection of records; plants clamoured beside an array of tape recorders, which Paul had taught John to use; a squashy sofa, where they sat and played or wrote or read; a parlour piano beneath an enormous window that looked out over the back garden; and a crammed double bed, which John claimed to Cynthia he needed for his “napping.” The overall effect was a good deal more cluttered than Paul liked or was used to, but the space was so very  _John,_ and by extension them, that he loved it in a nostalgic, romantic way that John would scoff at.

Dropping his muffler on an armchair, Paul sat down drank his tea. He watched John clatter about the room, cup in one hand, a couple of books in the other, muttering to himself as he tried to coax some heat from the radiator. Beyond the scope of the lamp, the world outside was black as velvet, the snow falling in a steady white sheet.

“Shall I roll us one, then?”

John didn’t look away from fiddling with the knobs on the radiator. “Nothin’ fuckin’ works in this fuckin’ house,” he muttered. Then, in a normal tone of voice, “What?”

“Want a smoke?”

“Oh, yeah. Ta. I keep it…” Straightening up and looking around him, John frowned at the mess. “Somewhere.”

Dimly recalling them hiding a stash after one of Cynthia’s periodic spring cleans, Paul put his cup on the floor beside the armchair. Twisting around as he sat, he searched through some piles of books. After a moment, he shoved aside an accordion and held up an old mustard tin. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Ta-da.”

“Mystic Meg strikes again,” John said dryly. Padding over to sit on the rug in front of Paul’s armchair, he took the tin. Paul watched him extricate papers and a tuft of grass.

His fingers were long and deft as they rolled a blunt. Paul propped his head up on one palm and said, “S’really not bad, y’know.” When John hitched his specs up his nose, Paul blinked. “The song. In fact, I think it’s one of the best you’ve ever done.”

“Shurrup,” John grumbled, but he sounded pleased. His tongue was pink as it swept across the paper.

“I’m mean it, Johnny. I’d not say it otherwise.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Paul kicked a foot against the side of the armchair. As John searched his pockets for a lighter, Paul got up and went over to the record player. He flipped through a couple before holding one up with a questioning look. John stuck the blunt in the corner of his mouth. “George gave it t’me,” he explained, voice muffled. “Says it’ll change me life.”

The ornate illustration on the album cover looked far too drippy for John’s taste. Amused, Paul took it out of the sheath and put it onto the player. John nudged his shoulder as he steadied the needle, then he turned around to accept the smouldering joint.

Weed, musty but perfumed, drifted into the air as the opening chords sounded. The twanging chords were contemplative but intense; Paul immediately thought of far-off places where the sun burned orange and people lingered in the shade of spreading trees. He took a deep lungful of weed, his eyes closing. When he opened them, John was watching him with a sad, soft expression.

“What’s this called?” Paul asked, passing him the joint.

John took it and scooted over to sit with his back to the bed. As Paul followed suit, he said, “Shankar or someone. S’where George first got the idea for that bloody sitar thing he drags around.”

Their shoulders were pressed together. Paul felt the slow embrace of weed in his system as he warmed to simply being here, with John, on a night like tonight. When John tilted his head back and exhaled a cloud of smoke, Paul leaned his head against the edge of the mattress and studied his profile.

Noticing lazily, John mumbled through a mouthful of joint, “We’re not in the studio now, Dorothy.”

“No,” Paul agreed. John let himself be watched for a little while, trying to blow smoke rings at the ceiling. Affection, strong and sweet, swelled in Paul’s chest. Moving slowly, he reached up to curl his fingers through John’s hair, trailing around the back of his right ear. John’s eyes shuttered. The blunt glowed between his full lips, the lamp light casting a hazy warmth over them both. After Paul took the joint, John shifted until his head rested on his shoulder.

They smoked for a while, passing the weed back and forth, listening to the hypnotic trip of the sitar, the hollow pulse of drums, the slightly eerie reverb as the music dipped and swelled.

“George wants me t’go t’India with ‘im,” John said. Paul hazily watched John’s hand slide down his thigh until he found Paul’s free left hand. He tangled their fingers together. His palm was warm and dry.

“Really?” Paul asked. John nodded against his shoulder, the light glinting off his glasses. His eyelashes looked dusty and soft when he blinked. “Come with me, Paul.”

“To India?” He’d never thought of doing anything like that. But the feel of John’s fingers wound through his made the prospect seem blurred with promise. He thought sleepily of riding elephants. “Mm. Might not be too bad.”

“I don’t wanna go alone.” John’s voice was low, burred with weed, but there was an undertone that Paul had only heard a handful of times over the course of their relationship. Frowning at the ceiling, Paul tilted his cheek against the top of John’s head. His hair tickled Paul’s sensitive skin; the weed trailed languorously through his veins. For something that had been lost in the jetsam of John’s existence, the blunt was stronger than he’d expected.

“Y’won’t be alone,” Paul replied softly. He turned to breathe in John’s scent: ash and tea and dust. “I won’t leave you.”

The music faded. There was nothing but the distant feeling of John’s pulse against Paul’s shoulder. He looked down at their clasped hands, at John’s bony knuckles and talented fingers. When the drums started up again, the sitar weaving through like a dream, Paul finished off the joint and dropped it in an ashtray balanced on a pile of books.

“Hey.” He touched John’s jaw with his free hand. “Come t’bed.”

Wordlessly, they swayed to their feet. Paul took off his boots and belt then helped John do the same, leaving their things in a pile on the floor. John turned to crawl up onto the mattress on all fours, the scarlet duvet gathering under his weight. As he dropped onto his bed with a contented sigh, Paul came to lay beside him. He gathered John into his side. With his head tucked into the crook of Paul’s neck and his arm resting heavily around Paul’s middle, John went, “Mm. That’s better.”

Although weed and exhaustion threatened to drag him into slumber, Paul turned his head to watch John. Feeling the weight of Paul’s eyes on him and tilting his head up to meet his gaze, John smiled. They kissed gently, Paul moving down to meet John pushing up. Their mouths were soft and slightly dry from the joint, a last gasp of smoke trailing across John’s skin. Paul smoothed a tongue along John’s bottom lip. He tasted him.

When they parted, John shifted up so their heads lay together on the pillow. As they looked at each other Paul felt a wave of shared thoughts and feelings flow between them. The sensation was so soothing, so familiar, that he relaxed even further into the bed, drawing John in for another slow, exploratory kiss.

Pulling back, John murmured, “Oh, I love you.”

Paul’s throat stuck. He ran his fingers through John’s hair, his pulse stuttering when John’s eyes slipped closed, as if this were the most wondrous feeling in the world. Paul kissed him again, lingering over John’s mouth. Feeling as if he were made of liquid, Paul gazed wondrously at the man in front of him.

“’Say the word’,” Paul remembered quietly.

“Paul,” he answered.

There was a pause as the sound of the sitar flowed through the room. “D’you really want to go to India?” Paul resumed carding through John’s fluffy hair. “Properly, I mean.”

John made a sleepy sound. “George said he’s heard of this man. A guru. He has the answer.”

That sounded suitably vague. “To life?”

“Apparently. ‘The answer.’ I want an answer.”

“I have an answer,” Paul started slowly. John blinked, looking open in the way he only ever was with Paul; like they were waiting for each other. Paul moved so their lips caught when he spoke the endearment. He tilted into a kiss, John’s mouth softening beneath his. “John, love,” he repeated. The rest of the sentence simmered on his tongue. But John only curled a hand around Paul’s waist and drew them close together, their groins nudging.

“Don’t go,” John said suddenly. He ducked in to kiss Paul’s top lip, his moustache pressing against Paul’s nose. When Paul said, “I won’t,” John murmured, “Stay here with me.”

“I will.” John ran his hands over Paul’s ribs, his palm flattening over bone and flesh, feeling for the heartbeat that thrummed rapid as the music that swelled between them. Paul smiled into John’s kiss and teased, “You’ve trapped me.”

John very slowly bit down on Paul’s lower lip. “I have, ‘ave I?” he echoed. “What did it, the tempestuous nature or the ugly mug?”

Resisting the curl of lust in his belly as John mouthed along his neck, Paul exhaled unsteadily. He opened his eyes and looked at John, who stopped kissing to watch him with an insecure flicker in his expression. He rested his hand on the side of John’s neck, whose pulse was firm beneath his thumb. “Everything,” Paul murmured seriously. “All of it. Always. Even when I want t’strangle you with those bloody hideous scarves y’wear. Or when y’throw a fit in the studio over a song that’s been perfect for weeks. When you stick your head out the window of a moving car.” He grinned as John laughed. “All the good bits and all the bad bits. Of which there are  _many_.”

“I’m an arsehole,” John agreed, a smile hitching the corner of his mouth.

“Such,” Paul whispered as he moved in to kiss him, “an arsehole.”

John made a soft noise of protest when Paul pulled away. “But you’re so good, John.” He searched John’s face: those off-kilter glasses, his thick moustache, that lovely petulant mouth, his amber eyes. Paul smoothed his thumb over one cheekbone, looking at the scattered freckles that gathered there. “You are so good and y’won’t believe it of yourself.”

“I don’t need to, with you to tell me,” John replied after a pause. He swallowed. “Paul…”

“Me too,” Paul murmured urgently. “So much. Since we were kids.”

Something desperate loomed in John’s gaze. “Is that it, then?” he whispered.

“S’all I can.” They stared at each other. “For now,” Paul amended.

After a beat, John nodded. Smoothing his hand up to touch Paul’s jaw, his chin, his cheek, John’s expression faded sadly. When their eyes met again, he said, “I’m shit at waiting.”

“I can’t go any faster,” Paul replied quietly.

“And I can’t do it just for anyone.”

They watched each other. “Yeah.” Paul resumed stroking John’s cheekbone. “I know.”

 

* * *

  

**High Park Farm.**

December 16th, 1966.

 

Paul sang the same song the whole way up to Scotland.

“ _Farmer Brown, he’s always around, loving and caring for the ground._ Oh!” Paul drummed on the steering wheel. “ _Farmer Brown! You’re always around, watching my garden grow…”_

“Shut the fuck up!” John yelled.

“ _Farmer Brown is coming by, he’s going to teach me –”_

_“How to die.”_

Paul shot him a comically distraught look. “Bit much, mate.”

“S’not my fault ye set it up perfectly.” Peering out at the passing countryside, John said, “How much longer, anyroad? M’fuckin’ starving.”

Needless to say, this had been Paul’s grand idea. Their evening at Weybridge simmered between them as they threw themselves into recording. Between the increasingly late nights, tempers, and blunts, things were only just beginning to creep ahead of schedule when Brian, in an increasingly rare fit of interest in their music, phoned up with a new way to generate hype around the album.

John, who’d been offended by the fact Eppy had rung Paul as first choice, had nastily told him that the public would buy their music if it was them humming into a microphone, off-key, for forty-five minutes. “Not another filmed bloody excerpt,” John exclaimed when Paul delivered the news. “That’s a waste of fuckin’ time. Sod that. We’re going back to the fuckin’ Bahamas.”

“Or we could go to Scotland,” Paul suggested, watching John pretend to throw things into a suitcase. He shrugged when John whipped around to stare at him. “To scout locations?”

Which found them here, in Paul’s rattly old Volkswagen he thought looked cool, with the heating on full blast, a blanket wrapped around John’s legs, and Paul making up stupid songs about the farmer bloke that kept the property when he wasn’t there. If he wasn’t in such a foul mood, John might appreciate the austere beauty of their surroundings. The whole thing was reminding him strongly of hitchhiking when they were younger. Bowler hats and shared beds and stolen pints. First kisses and all that lark. Scotland was burly and strange, with the mountains looming proudly in the distance, their caps blanketed in white.

The windscreen wipers squeaked against the occasional falling snowflake. Paul’s hands on the steering wheel, when he wasn’t thinking he was a better drummer than old Rings, were white knuckled to keep them from sliding off the road.

Trust Paul to think going off together in the bleak mid-winter was dead romantic. Dead being the operative word.

Paul made a thoughtful noise. “Half an hour, maybe? I remember that town we passed a while back. That means we’re close,” he added with a sideways grin.

“Goodie,” John deadpanned. “If I freeze to death, I’ll come back from the sodding grave t’make sure you’re arrested for murder.”

“Manslaughter, probably,” Paul said. He leaned over to adjust the heating before John smacked his hand away.

“I’ve only just thawed out! Christ, when was the last time ye dragged yourself up here. Was Dot around?”

“Bugger off, John. No, s’was only in June.” Paul started a rather boring story about Jane and property and investments. John had slumped down in his seat until his lower face was hidden by the tartan blanket, his glasses squashed up into his hair, staring glassy-eyed at the endless stretch of black road. They were surrounded by white, the snow having fell more or less incessantly since they’d started up the M74.

Paul trailed off after a while and lit a cigarette. The motion of the car made John’s eyes drift closed. He listened to Paul humming quietly under his breath, sucking on his cigarette, the huff as he exhaled. How long had it been like this, just the two of them? They’d managed to slip away over the years, albeit with some nuisances in between, like with America the first time, or when John went off to Spain.

Contrary to what the others might _think_ John thought, Paul’s slow ascent to the top of the pyramid wasn’t so terrifying a prospect. There was something strangely soothing about letting himself not be the leader for once, not to be in control. And Paul, with his tight floral shirts and tan trousers, interview-ready smile and charming asides, fit the bill far better than scruffy, gangly, speccy John Lennon. If anyone were worthy, it’d be Paul.

Someone shook his shoulder. “John,” Paul said quietly. “We’re here, love. Come ‘ead.”

John sleepily rubbed one eye beneath his glasses and sat up. The blanket tangled around his waist as he looked at Paul, who smiled warmly and teased, “ _Icicle Fields_ enough for ye?”

They’d parked outside a modest stone farmhouse with a bright red door. Fences piled high with snow encircled the farmyard, around which were various outbuildings. As John sat up further to peer out the window, he took in the sweeping paddocks that fell away from the farmhouse and towards the ring of distant mountains. Off to his right, just over Paul’s shoulder, there was something smooth as marble that could be the loch Paul had told him about. The sky was heavy and overcast; John was relieved to see smoke spiralling from the farmhouse chimney.

“Bloody idyllic, this is.” He met Paul’s gaze and grinned. In the silver winter light, Paul was pink-cheeked and mischievous, his hair and moustache so dark against pale skin. Even as he raised his slender eyebrows in an _I told you so_ look, the effect was ruined by the enormous red muffler wound around his neck. Combined with the bulky coat and mittens, Paul looked… “The Nerk Twins are back, eh,” John commented.

Paul laughed in surprise. “God, I’d nearly forgotten that. D’ye remember asking Mike for all that stage advice?”

A large figure with a hefty beard swam into view. “Aye, and his terrible homebrew we nicked.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Paul objected, although he was still laughing. His eyes glittered in recollection. “Oh, shit, what were those girls’ names? The ones at the dance?”

“Fuck if I know,” John replied, distracted.

“Maura, maybe. We danced t’ _Twist and Shout,_ I think.” Something wicked entered Paul’s expression. “You wore leathers.”

 _Oh-ho,_ John thought in interest _._ He didn’t hide the flirtatious overtone in his voice when he smirked and said, “You’ve got a selective memory, McCartney.”

Shrugging coyly, Paul blinked at him. “Hard t’forget, that. And yer quiff.”

A shiver of anticipation made John twist around to put an arm over the back of Paul’s car seat. He waggled his eyebrows. “Can I interest sir in driving _my_ car?”

Just as Paul was about to answer, something caught his attention through the front windshield. “Paul!” John complained as Paul went, “Farmer Brown, hullo!” He clambered out of the car, a blast of frigid air coming in through the open door, his hair ruffling in the wind as he crunched over towards the farmhouse. A figure in overalls had appeared in the front door. They greeted each other like old friends.

Disgruntled, John gathered their bags. As he came slogging up to the porch, Paul broke off a cheerful conversation to smile at him.

“This is my friend, John,” he explained. “We’ll be here through to Monday, I should think.”

“Very good to meet you, sir,” Farmer Brown rumbled, his thick brogue instantly reminding John of those relatives he used to stay with when he was a lad. They shook hands, John saying, “Alright, mate.”

“Now, I’ve loaded up the fire for you,” he continued. “And there should be plenty of food. Don’t mind the sheep, now.” A flock of black-faced creatures stared at them in the nearby paddock. “They’re up ‘ere ‘til lambing. I’ll bring them down in a day or two before the weather turns.”

As if to punctuate his point, the wind whistled over the farmyard and along the stoned façade of the house. John crossed his arms around his middle and hunched down into his muffler. Paul looked similarly battered by the onslaught, but he wore it well by smiling weakly.

“Alright. And, uh, just how cold is it supposed to –”

Farmer Brown gave him a sympathetic look. “Ah, don’t worry, lad. Stoke the fire and stay indoors and you’ll be right.” He turned to open the door for them, then rubbed his hands together. “Keys are on the table, Mister McCartney. You enjoy yourself, now.”

“Thank you,” Paul said uncertainly. Clearly the idea that they’d turn into human ice lollies seemed less of an exaggeration and more of a reality in light of Farmer Brown’s no-nonsense attitude. They said their goodbyes, John shoving past into the farmhouse as Paul waved Brown’s truck back down the drive.

 The entrance opened into the flagstone kitchen. It was large but old-fashioned, a fireplace with a medieval hearth and beam mantle lined with copper pots and other odds and ends. Dropping the bags by the scrubbed wooden table, John went to investigate the ground floor. It consisted of the kitchen, a tiny indoors loo, and a sitting room, which had an iron potbellied stove, and a collection of dusty furniture. Even through his boots the floor was freezing. The single-paned windows rattled every time the wind howled past. John shuffled back into the kitchen to accost Paul.

“We may as well sleep in the fuckin’ stable.”

Not looking up from where he was poking the fire, Paul said indistinctly, “It’s homely, John. It’s supposed t’be like this.”

“Oh, aye?” John curled into a seat at the table. “And if they find two frozen little Beatles come spring, will ye call it homely then?”

“Don’t be like that. Oh!” A great billow of steam spilled out of the pot on the stove. Paul held the lid up and grinned. The heavy, warm smell of soup suffused the air. “Mrs Brown,” he said fondly, shaking his head.

“What if it’s poison,” John mumbled into his muffler. He watched, suspicious, as Paul merrily began to pour them both a bowl and saw off hunks from a loaf of bread that looked more rock than food. John ignored Paul’s struggle in favour of digging into his lunch. When Paul sat opposite him and passed over a couple of doorstopper slices of bread, John said through a mouthful of food, “Ta, love.”

Paul slurped up some soup and closed his eyes rapturously. “Jane not a good cook, then,” John commented.

“We eat out, mostly,” Paul replied. He buttered his bread and did the same for John. “With her rehearsals and me at the studio ‘til all hours… Y’know how it is.” He shrugged uncomfortably.

John swallowed, his spoon hovering over his bowl. Watching Paul eat, he asked, somewhat distastefully but aiming for polite interest, “How’s it goin’?”

Snorting, Paul shot him a look. “Ye don’t care about Jane, mate. If ye want t’know if we’re on the out, just say so.”

“Fine.” John put his spoon down with a challenging air. “’As she been shagging the extras instead of cookin’ yer tea?”

“S’bit more complicated than that. But yeah. I dunno. Sort of.” He frowned at his soup.

Twas a rare occasion indeed when McCharmley found himself lost for words. Things must be bad. Examining his feelings on the matter would feel too self-serving, and Cynthia had spitefully told him just last week that he was the most self-absorbed man in Britain, so John generously decided to let the matter pass by. He spent too much time holding out for things that never fuckin’ happened.

“We should go on a walk later,” Paul said thoughtfully, then stuck his spoon in his mouth. Swallowing, he added, “Find a spot for the films, y’know.”

John scoffed. “Come off it, Paul. Ye reckon anyone bought that load of shite about scouting a _location?”_

“Why wouldn’t they?” Paul’s frown returned as he watched John eat. “You’ve spilled some down your front, by the way.”

“Oh, shit.” John caught a slug of soup with a tea towel. The longer he dabbed, the more it sunk into the front of his coat. “Bollocks. I liked this fuckin’ thing.”

“S’ugly,” Paul told him, and John scowled. “Fuck off, Mister Tartan.”

Paul looked down at his muffler, which was, indeed, tartan. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Ye look like a holiday special.”

“I’m getting into the Christmassy mood,” Paul retorted. Their eyes snagged and he grinned, the corner of his mouth hitching up playfully. “Something you’d do well to try, might I add.”

“If I don’t play the grinch, we’d all go around wrapped in bleedin’ tinsel with bells affixed to our shoes.”

Paul pointed his spoon at him. “There’s an idea for the film.”

“Sod the fuckin’ film.” Giving up on his ruined coat, John dunked the end of his bread into the soup. He was beginning to feel sleepy and warm, like Julian after he’d had a big meal. “Not like Eppy cares, anyroad. He’s off on his own more oft than not.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Paul the Diplomat said, “He wants t’be involved.”

“He can be involved without cooking up bloody stupid things like films,” John said tartly. “If he wants t’be involved he can keep his beak out and stick to admin.”

Intuitively sensing what John was alluding to, Paul’s mouth pinched. “He shouldn’t have done it, John. I told him he’d cocked up.”

Releasing _Strawberry Fields_ as a single was quite possibly the most idiotic thing Brian had ever conceived, and that included the nightmare that was fucking Manila. Just thinking about it made John’s skin run hot. He irritably yanked off his muffler and shrugged off his coat, leaving him in a woollen vest and shirtsleeves. “I’ll do more than tell him,” he muttered darkly, “next time I lay me eyes on his fuckin’ mug.”

Paul, whose sympathy for Brian never did run deep, quirked his eyebrows in agreement. “It could be interestin’, filming up here,” he started, changing topic. “The snow could be a nice juxtaposition to the lyrics...”

 _Juxtaposition._ Christ on a bike. “They probably think we’re up here shagging.”

Paul choked on some soup. “What?”

“Told ye it’s about as subtle as a brick through a window. Even Rings and the wife are off on a break before Christmas. Which is code for lover’s retreat, in case y’were wonderin’.”

“They’ve got a baby,” Paul pointed out, and John said dryly, “All the more reason.”

With their bowls empty, they both leaned back in their chairs. The fire in the corner popped as the snow outside began to fall a little more heavily. John said, “Give us a cig,” and Paul lit them both one, passing it over the table. When their fingers touched, John’s skin prickled.

“Isn’t Jane hacked off you’re away before Christmas?” John asked. He took a drag then rested his cigarette hand on the table, watching the smoke tendril up towards the ceiling. Pushing his specs up with his free hand, his eyes flicked up to look at Paul.

As Paul tilted his head and exhaled some smoke, John was suddenly struck by how handsome he looked. The firelight cast shifting shadows over his face and emphasised the blackness of his eyelashes, the gentle way in which his mouth parted. When he tapped some ash into his bowl and met John’s gaze, John made himself take a drag of his cigarette.

“She’s still in Bristol,” Paul said. On the surface, he sounded measured, but John knew what it meant when Paul held himself that still.

“Right,” John said awkwardly.

“Mike’s going up to Dad and Angela’s. I said I might go too, if the Ashers are full.”

An obvious solution hovered between them. But John’s cowardliness could always be relied upon, and so the moment passed.

“What about you?” Paul asked.

An agonizing image entered his mind: Cynthia needling him about decorating the tree; Julian, unsatisfied with his horde of presents, wanting the one person who’d never let himself be there; John, uncomfortable and miserable, chain-smoking through dinner and sneaking off to get high before pudding. Most likely Maureen and Pattie would come by, talking nineteen to the dozen, inevitably to keep Cynthia company as John Lennon tried to fade from existence.

“The usual,” John replied.

They smoked for a while until Paul yawned. John took the cue to clear the table. “Thanks,” Paul said as John picked up his bowl.

John turned around to start the dishes, his cigarette clenched in the corner of his mouth. He’d rolled up his sleeves and was waiting for the sink to fill when Paul’s arms bracketed him against the counter. Pressing himself flush to John’s back, Paul felt solid and warm, and when he smiled against John’s neck, his pulse quickened.

“Domestic Lennon,” Paul teased quietly. “There’s a rare sight.”

“Don’t get used to it.” John puffed out some smoke and turned off the tap. He did the dishes in this way, with Paul leaning his head over his shoulder, one hand coming to rest in the curve of John’s waist. The pressure of Paul against his arse made John’s hands slip on the cutlery. “Careful now,” Paul said, voice low in his right ear.

John unsteadily finished the washing up. As he pulled the plug and reached for a tea towel, Paul started pressing damp, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck. He shuddered at the feeling.

“So, the backseat’s not good enough,” John murmured, “but the kitchen counter is.”

“Something like that.” Paul smiled against his neck. His grip tightened on John’s hip as he came even closer, his cock nudging against the belt of John’s trousers. The front of his thighs were snug against John’s, his chest firm and hard, his hair tickling the back of John’s bare neck. Reaching down to hold the side of the counter, tea towel still in hand, John tilted his head back and pushed into Paul’s weight. The corresponding pressure made Paul exhale, warm air curling against John’s sensitive skin.

“Feel like some afternoon delight?” he asked roughly.

John swallowed. “Like ye even have t’ask.”

He dropped his cigarette in the empty sink. Turning around in Paul’s embrace, John immediately slid his arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Paul opened their mouths, their tongues slipping against one another, his lips warm and full beneath John’s teeth. Keeping one hand on the counter, Paul’s other palm trailed from John’s hip to rest against his lower back. At his urging, John nudged his hips to press more firmly against Paul’s. The immediate pressure made their breath hitch.

John gripped the short hair at the nape of Paul’s neck, which made Paul inhale sharply. Using the pause to his benefit, John angled their mouths together filthily, kissing with abandon, eliciting a helpless sound in the back of Paul’s throat. Want, white and hot, curled through John’s veins. There was nothing but the slick sound of their kissing and Paul’s muffled noises against his lips.

“Come on,” John murmured heatedly, eyes closed, “I wanna hear ye. Come on, Paulie.” When Paul moaned, John whispered, “No one can hear us.”

There came a loud series of knocks on the door.

John jerked away, incredulous. They stared at each other, then looked over at the door. Someone knocked again.

“Fuck off!” John yelled, and Paul immediately flushed and hissed, “Shut up, John!”

They listened for a moment. Through the heavy kitchen door came Father Brown’s deep voice. “Sorry to be interrupting, Mister McCartney.”

“Bloody unbelievable,” John marvelled. Paul bit his lip, which twitched with mounting laughter. He pulled away from John and the absence of his heat was almost unbearable. John’s groin ached. Part of him wanted to stand there, broad as daylight, so the codger could see his todger, but knowing Paul, he’d get all weird and embarrassed, and there’d be no afternoon delight after _that._

Paul walked around the table. He turned around to mime John behaving himself, to which John rolled his eyes, before he opened the front door. The fact that he strategically angled his waist behind the frame made John snort.

John busied himself with drying the dishes. The ensuing conversation between Farmer Brown and Paul – one apologetic, the other calm and polite – ended up being about ruddy sheep. As John folded up the tea towel, Paul turned around and said, “I’m going to give Michael a hand, John. D’ye want to come?”

At John’s corresponding look, Paul smirked. “Thought so. Stay here, then.” Tugging his coat and muffler back on, Paul closed the door behind him. John listened to the sound of their footsteps as they crunched away, the cadence of Farmer Brown’s voice mingling with the howl of wind.

Deciding that he’d better have a kip now that a shag was off the table, John made himself a cup of tea, gathered their bags, then went upstairs. Unbelievably, it wasn’t as cold as he’d expected up in the bedroom. The wooden floorboards were covered in woven rugs, and a sturdy double bed overlooked the back paddock. Even the windows up here were double glazed. Feeling far too lazy and randy to be of further use, John took off his boots, pulled on a pair of thick woollen socks, and crawled into bed, which was laden with numerous blankets and a thick goose down duvet.

John propped himself up against the headboard and sipped at his tea. The walls were slightly lumpy, probably made of straw and mud once upon a time, and plastered over with a white wash. Dark beams supported the low ceiling, and a few framed prints of animals and trees and Nature’s Wonders decorated the wall beside another pot-bellied stove. The room brimmed with warmth.

When Paul still hadn’t returned after a while, John contemplated having a wank. Instead he hauled himself to the downstairs loo, washed up his tea cup in the kitchen, and went back to bed. He’d almost succeeded in drifting off to sleep when the front door slammed downstairs.

“I’m back!” Paul called, voice muffled. He thumped about stomping snow off his boots. John listened as he coughed and carried on, then came pounding up the stairs. When he flung the door open, John opened one eye to glare at him from his nest of blankets.

“Bloody hell, be louder,” he snapped.

“Sorry,” Paul said, not sounding very sorry at all. His cheeks were flushed red from the cold, and his hair stuck up at all angles. A few snowflakes melted in his moustache. Shivering dramatically, Paul threw himself onto the bed and buried beneath the blankets.

John said, “Oh, bugger off, ye bastard,” and Paul went, “Sorry, sorry,” and then he stuck his freezing feet to John’s calves and he nearly hit the roof. When Paul stopped laughing, he shoved some blankets out of the way to scoot up close to John, who grumbled, “Christ, ye were always shite t’sleep with.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Paul corrected. He grinned at John’s scowl.

They fussed about for a bit getting comfortable, until at last Paul settled back with a contented sigh. His body heat blossomed against John’s side. Above the covers, the air stirred with the cool draft coming up the stairs.

This close, Paul looked soft and boyish. His dark hair curled into his eyes. “So much for waiting up.”

“You’re the one who went to play farmer.” John was too lazy to ask what it was all about, but Paul explained anyway, “One of the ewes escaped. Normally Michael’s got a sheepdog or something, but she’s had a litter and he’s got a bad leg.”

“Poor Mister Brown,” John mumbled, eyes drifting closed. “Serves ‘im right for interruptin’.”

“’Ey up, you’re not sleeping, are ye.” When John muttered something, Paul said, “Don’t you want to…”

“I did.” John decided to ignore Paul’s flirtatious undertone and disappeared further into the blankets. “Not anymore. Your feet are like blocks of bloody ice.”

There was a pause. Then the covers shifted as Paul came closer, slipping a leg between John’s thighs and drawing them flush. Squeezing his eyes closed, John resolved to ignore Paul’s feather-light kisses along his neck. He was so warm, and so comfortable, and Paul smelled like cold and damp and wood smoke.

“Paul,” he started. A familiar mouth trailed over the curve of his jaw. “Paul.”

“Mm.” Paul brushed their lips together. When he closed the breath between them and began to kiss John slowly, surely, John made a noise in the back of his throat. Paul smiled into the kiss. “There we are,” he murmured.

The pleasure in Paul’s voice made John ache with renewed desire. He unwound his arms and looped them around Paul’s neck, rolling onto his back. Paul’s body was a welcome weight on his, and as he slotted their legs more firmly together, the nudge of their groins made Paul bite down his lip. John slipped his tongue into Paul’s mouth and tasted him, the hot-wet sending shudders of desire down his spine. Beneath their cocoon, the scent of clean sweat mingled with the sound of their mouths meeting, each kiss damp and soft, Paul’s pulse thumping steadily beneath John’s fingers.

Paul slowly slid a hand down the front of John’s chest. His palm dragged over layers of wool to reach the hem of John’s shirt, beneath which he curled an exploratory finger. “Paul,” John breathed, arching into the pressure. Drawing away just enough to gently pull off John’s glasses, Paul dropped them on the bedside table and smiled down at him. He was nothing more than a fleshy blob, but he was _John’s_ fleshy blob. That alone made John drag him into another kiss, this time one of fat tongues and bruised lips.

Groaning lowly, Paul shoved his hand further up John’s shirt and jumper. The feeling of skin on skin was absurdly intense; John breathed heavily through his nose as they kissed, trying to press as close as he could. And Paul, sensing what he needed, began to rut, their cocks catching together through their trousers, the pace languid enough that John felt as if he were dissolving. All he felt was the gathering bloom of heat between his legs. The weight of Paul’s body, the warmth between them, the way in which Paul found a nipple and rubbed a rough thumb over it, making John’s stomach jump –

“ _Fuck_ , John.” Paul kissed him fervently. He tilted his head to deepen the angle as he thrust their tongues together, mimicking the steady roll of his hips. John ran a hand through Paul’s hair, the other coming down to grab at his arse. They pulled away to pant into each other’s mouths. John watched their point of contact and it was with a bolt of white pleasure that he glimpsed the clear outline of Paul’s erection.

“Christ,” John groaned, his head dropping back. Paul pushed down and bit his lower lip, his thrusts speeding up. The drag of his trousers against his aching cock was too much. “Kit off,” John ordered, sounding strangled. Paul immediately sat up and tugged off his jumper. “Off, off.”

Blankets twisted around them as they undressed. John kicked himself free to shuck his trousers, which he flung over the side of the bed. With his hair standing on end but, mercifully, nude, Paul immediately blanketed John’s body. When their cocks aligned, Paul murmured hoarsely, “Oh, yeah, fuck.”

Propped up on his elbows, Paul ducked his head to watch them rut together. John spread his legs until Paul was flush between them. His heart hammered and sweat gathered in the back of his knees. John grabbed Paul’s jaw and jerked him down into a messy kiss. He spread a hand over Paul’s sharp shoulder blades, which were damp and hot, and urged him into a quicker rhythm. Paul’s cock, slick with pre-come, slid into the juncture of John’s hip.

John’s breath caught. He thrust upwards on instinct, imagining the feeling of Paul inside him, doing him – “Paul, I need ye.” His voice was rough and dark and pitched low enough that Paul growled, “Want me t’fuck you?” and John’s cock visibly jumped at the half-remembered sensation.

“Yeah.” John swallowed thickly. He met Paul’s eyes, which were enormous and black, and swallowed again when he noticed the way Paul’s mouth was burned red, his cheeks flushed. Dark, damp hair curled on his forehead. John’s gut jumped when he recognized that the slight rash on Paul’s skin was from his own moustache. “Yeah,” John bit out. “Oh, Paul. Fuck me.”

Paul’s mouth parted wetly. Deliberately dropping his eyes, Paul weighed his palms on the inside of John’s thighs. Something dark and intense flickered over his expression. Paul sank his teeth into his lower lip and pushed John’s legs apart.

“Christ,” John breathed, arching his back. He spread his legs even further, relishing the burn in his muscles, the deep ache of his cock against his hipbone. Paul’s eyes dragged over his body, his gaze heavy as a weight, drinking in the sight of John wanton before him. Knowing that Paul was watching, John reached up to pinch one of his own nipples.

With a low groan, Paul moved up the bed on his knees until the front of his thighs pressed flush against John’s. They looked at their cocks when Paul took them both in hand. The tight grip made John’s hips stutter upwards, his head dropping back. “Paul, fuck.”

Paul jerked them agonizingly slowly. With each tug John’s body wound tighter, his groin pinching in urgency, his skin prickling with sweat. When their bollocks pushed briefly together, he bit down on a loud moan.

“Paul, really,” he managed, eyes squeezed closed, “please fuck me. Fuck me, love, oh yeah.”

“Yeah?” Paul panted, his hand speeding up. The sound of slapping flesh was utterly obscene. “You want me to?”

In lieu of speaking, John forced himself to sit up and curl a hand around the back of Paul’s neck, dragging him into a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Paul’s chest burned against his own. The weight of his body was maddening: that slow heaviness, the nudge of his cock against John’s hip, the hitch of breath as their nipples snagged. Paul tilted his head and dragged his tongue along the inseam of John’s lips, urging his mouth open until he pulled away, propped on one elbow, and slid two fingers into John’s mouth.

John groaned. His eyes half-opened and met Paul’s intent gaze. Flattening his tongue along the inside of Paul’s index and middle fingers, he drew them in until Paul’s knuckles pressed against his moustache. Breathing steadily through his nose, John began to fellate them. Saliva dribbled down into Paul’s palm. The way he watched John – mouth gently parted, his cheeks flushed, his nostrils flaring slightly – made John arch up, their cocks trapped between their damp bodies, the bone-deep thrum of an imminent orgasm making him moan lowly.

“Good lad,” Paul murmured roughly. “Oh, fuck, yeah.” He thrust his fingers in and out of John’s mouth, his eyes darkening when John swallowed against the urge to gag. The feeling of being so utterly at someone else’s whim – under _Paul’s_ instruction – pounded through him in increasingly hot waves.

Paul dragged his fingers free. He immediately blanketed John’s body and they kissed sloppily, all pretence gone, the sense of urgency mounting dangerously between them. “Wait, wait,” Paul muttered, pulling away to fumble among the bedcovers. He emerged with a bottle of lubricant, which ordinarily would make John laugh, _Carry that around just in case, eh?,_ but now only made his cock throb. Paul’s fingers, when they pressed firmly at his arsehole, were slick. John stared at the ceiling and swallowed past his dry throat; it was only when Paul hushed him and littered a series of kisses around his nipples that he realized he was murmuring, _Fuck, oh fuck,_ over and over like a mantra. When Paul finally slid two fingers into his waiting body, John shuddered, his lungs constricting with the indescribable sensation of being _full._ Paul started to fuck him, picking up a rapid pace, sensing what John needed, what he craved. How long had it been? How long? “Come into me,” John urged brokenly, “Paul, please, now, fuck.” 

Licking his lips, Paul pushed away to lean on his haunches. The absence of his body heat made John sweat with anticipation. He breathed heavily through his mouth as he watched Paul take his cock in hand to guide it between John’s legs. His body was long and taut, his chest scattered with dark hair. The public hair that bloomed around his erect cock was damp with sweat. At the first blunt press against John’s arsehole, he had to grip the sheets to stop himself from coming. Paul pressed into him slowly, surely, one hand pushing John’s thigh back even further to watch him stretch around his cock, the other steadying himself on the jut of John’s hip bone.

With a shallow thrust, Paul was inside him. He started to thrust in tight movements, his belly covered in a slight sheen of perspiration, his eyelashes cut black against his coloured cheeks. John’s eyes shuttered. He focused past the initial unwelcome burn to the mounting coil of white heat within him. As Paul started to speed up he adjusted his hold on John’s hip, tilting his head to watch them together, murmuring, “Fuck yeah, oh yeah,” his cock shoving deeper and deeper, enough that John was boneless, supine, capable only of strangled sounds when Paul angled himself to hit further, _more._

“John, y’look – fuck.” Paul dragged his eyes over John’s body. His arms were taut and muscular where he pulled John towards him, their hips meeting hastily with each thrust, John arching upwards to chase the imminent rush of white pleasure between his legs. John grabbed the headboard behind him, his nipples exposed and hard. Paul noticed and groaned like a broken man, his hips snapping forward with renewed intent, sucking on his bottom lip, his chest rising and falling rapidly as they fucked.

“Tug me off,” John ordered breathlessly, and Paul grabbed his cock, pumping him clumsily. Paul thrust into him hard enough to make John’s arms shake with the effort of keeping away from the headboard, the intense burn and ache of Paul inside him so good it made John’s pulse pound in his ears. His bollocks swelled; his cock was slick with sweat. Paul rubbed a thumb over the slit of John’s cock. “Again,” John choked out, and, “fuck, I’m close,” and Paul groaned brokenly in response.

When Paul twisted John’s cock once more, he came with a shout. Hot pleasure rushed over him. Paul continue to thrust erratically, one hand sliding through the come on John’s stomach. He leaned over and they kissed sloppily. Paul’s pace jerked hard once, twice, the tell-tale hitch in his breath making John swell heatedly with the intense need for Paul to come. Paul bit on John’s lower lip before he broke away, moaning lowly, his eyes flitting down to watch himself.

“Yeah, Paul, come into me,” John urged, his voice tripping to bring Paul to the edge. He spread his legs and tightened on Paul’s cock, which made his throat constrict with pleasure. John tipped his head back, feeling inarticulately oversensitive. When Paul went, “Oh God, _fuck,”_ the rush of Paul’s come in him made John’s stomach swoop hotly. He looped his legs around Paul’s waist and drew him in, enough that come and sweat slipped between them as they kissed again, tongues slipping eagerly in the moment. Gradually, Paul’s mouth softened beneath his, the kisses growing shorter and warmer. At length, he pulled away to suck gently at John’s lower lip; to chase his tongue almost shyly.

Their mouths parted with a slick sound. Paul exhaled unsteadily and managed to pull out, come trickling down the back of John’s thigh. Out of breath, Paul lowered himself on the bed beside John. They lay together and felt the tide drag languidly over them like warm water.

“Christ,” John muttered. His voice sounded like it used to after _Twist and Shout,_ raw and fucked-out.

Paul could only manage a rough noise of assent. Their eyes slipped closed, the vestiges of the orgasm curling languidly through John’s veins. He didn’t open his eyes when Paul lazily made to wipe the come off his stomach, although he found himself smiling sleepily when Paul trailed smudged kisses up the side of his neck. When their mouths met they kissed contentedly, John sighing against Paul’s damp lips.

“Welcome t’Scotland,” Paul murmured.

John was incapable of moving. “Is it time for the infamous McCartney post-coital chat?”

Paul ran a hand through John’s hair, his nails catching on sensitive skin. He smiled against John’s lips. “Mm. Maybe.” Giving John one last, closed-mouthed kiss, Paul settled into John’s side, one arm a deadweight across John’s sticky stomach.

Exhaustion enveloped them both. Before John could have the last pithy word, the drowsy weight of Paul by his side let him slip gently away. When he woke, much later, it was to an endless blackness that only the country was capable of. Boiling beneath the heap of blankets, John fumbled for his glasses in the gloom. He was distantly aware of someone moving about downstairs. A snippet of Paul’s singing voice drifted up the stairs.

John untangled himself from the jungle. He dressed lazily, pulling on some old pyjama pants and a jumper over one of Paul’s t-shirts. His stomach looked like a fuckin’ art exhibit. After trying and failing to scratch the dried come off with one of Paul’s spare shirts, John gave up and wandered downstairs, yawning and scratching at his bollocks. He emerged into the living room to find Paul lolling on the sofa with his notebook propped on his belly.

“Lo,” Paul said, sounding pleased and sleepy, watching John slump at the other end of the sofa. “He emerges.”

“Slept like the dead,” John croaked. Clearing his throat, he dragged Paul’s legs over his lap.

Paul hummed and looked back at his notebook. “Didn’t wanna wake ye. Here, listen to this.” He sang a couple of nonsense lyrics, his voice low and soft. John opened his eyes when Paul nudged his side. “Well?”

“Who’s it about?”

“Who said it’s about anyone?”

“Ye never write about yourself, Paul,” he pointed out, “ergo, s’about someone else.”

Paul pursed his lips. John let him simmer for a moment before he refocused on Paul’s feet thrown over his lap. “S’about Tara.”

After a beat, Paul managed, “Is that a question?”

“Don’t play coy, Paul.” Suddenly irritable, John shoved his feet over the side. Paul drew his knees up and shifted so he was sitting up at the opposite end of the sofa. With the flickering light from the fireplace catching on the planes of his smooth face, Paul’s mussed hair, and the vaguely disgruntled way in which he frowned, John thought quite suddenly that this weekend could quite possibly go on forever and it still wouldn’t be enough. Terrifyingly, it might never be enough, not for him.

Tapping his pen against the notebook, Paul continued to frown at him. “Does it matter if it is?”

The thought of Paul being close to anyone, another man, in the way that they were, made John’s skin feel feverish. He adjusted his weight, crossing one leg beneath him to face Paul over the mound of cushions. Pushing his glasses further up his nose, John played for time. “I don’t care who ye write about, Paul. About or _for._ S’your ruddy music. Do what ye like.”

A flicker in Paul’s gaze indicated John hadn’t been as subtle as he thought. “John,” he started softly.

“I don’t wanna hear it.” Shoving up from the sofa in a sudden movement, John let himself loom over Paul, who blinked up at him with that _look_ he always had, as if he’d dipped freely into John’s mind and knew precisely what lurked within its torrid depths. Those big, calm eyes, that warm mouth, his horribly slender wrists that poked out from a truly hideous jumper.

“Tea?” John asked sullenly.

Paul ran the end of his pen over his bottom lip. “Yeah, alright.”

His storm cloud followed him out of the room. John spent far too long faffing about the kitchen: inspecting the stove, clattering the tea cups, swearing loudly when he dropped the canister of tea and spilled tea bags all over the flagstones. When his charade grew too tiresome to bear, John slumped at the table and lit and cigarette. The enormity of his own hideousness lapped around his ankles in a dank tide.

That was how Paul found him. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “What happened to the tea, then?”

“Make it yer fuckin’ self,” John growled. Smoke billowed from his mouth. Seized with restless energy, he stabbed out the cig in an ashtray. “Fuck this. I want a blunt.”

“No can do,” Paul replied, far cheerier than John would have thought. The man always seemed to have a stash secreted on his person; _in times of emergency,_ Paul had once explained with comedic solemnity. “Left it all at home, didn’t I.”

“Paul!” John complained loudly. “Why the hell would ye do that? How am I s’pose t’get high without any fuckin’ weed?”

“There are alternate methods.” Paul gave John a pointed look and came further into the kitchen. When he bent down to pick up the tea bags on the floor, John miserably appreciated how round his arse looked from this angle.

“M’not in the mood,” John mumbled as Paul straightened up.

“Are ye ever?” Paul lifted the kettle and began to fill it with water from the tap. He pretended to look out at the snow before, upon ensuring John was still watching, he shot him a sideways smile. “S’pose that’s why I love you.”

The words fell heavily between them. John stared. Paul didn’t do casual. He did flippant, coy, and catty, but not casual. The only time he was nonchalant was when he was studiously pretending otherwise. His heartbeat thumped in his ears. John clenched one fist then forced himself to spread his fingers flat. Paul busied himself with making tea.

For once, the Great John Lennon was lost for words.

“Milk?” Paul asked brightly, turning around to open the fridge door. He frowned into its contents. “Maybe not. Sugar?”

“Paul.”

“Bugger, none of that either. Oh, Farmer Brown, what a _cock_ up.”

John found it hard to breathe. “Paul.”

“Black it is, then.” Paul brought two cups over to the table and put them down. He sat in the chair right next to John. Their knees brushed. John watched helplessly as Paul forced himself to take a sip of too-hot tea.

“So, I was thinking,” Paul said, voice buoyant. “Tomorrow morning we’ll go on a walk. Maybe take our guitars, y’know, like old times – and I was thinking, we’ll work on _She’s Leaving Home._ Doesn’t quite fit, y’know? Too sad, like. Or something. Not sure yet, but we can work it out together, you know, when we walk –”

John felt as if he were being eclipsed by something intense and hot, something years and years in the making. Sixteen and finding young Elvis in the crowd. Seventeen and watching Paul bite his bottom lip as he crawled up John’s prone body on the cramped bed at Forthlin road. Paul, flush cheeked and tender; Paul, acerbic and sharp-eyed. Just: Paul.

When he reached out to touch his knee, Paul abruptly broke off. He swallowed and looked down at John’s hand. Their eyes met slowly. A deep thrum of _knowing_ made John exhale unsteadily, Paul’s wide hazel eyes as trusting and sure at twenty four as they had been at fifteen.

“Paul,” John murmured. The need to touch him sweetly, to let him feel what John felt, threaded through his veins until John touched his fingertips to Paul’s jaw. “Oh, Paul.”

“Yes,” Paul breathed. Uncertainty flitted, quick as a passing cloud, over his expression.

“Fucking finally,” John said, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like to say hullo, i'm @stonedlennon on tumblr. thank you for reading!


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